


How He Came to Be

by littleweedwrites, Loveismyrevolution



Series: The Families of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adoption, Autistic Sherlock Holmes, Child Abuse, Child Neglect, Childhood, Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Infertility, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock Holmes, Mycroft Being a Good Brother, POV Mycroft Holmes, Period-Typical Sexism, Protective Mycroft, Psychologists & Psychiatrists, Psychology, Trans Sherlock Holmes, Wakes & Funerals
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-26
Updated: 2021-02-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:33:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23258476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littleweedwrites/pseuds/littleweedwrites, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loveismyrevolution/pseuds/Loveismyrevolution
Summary: It’s Summer 1979, and Mycroft Holmes’s ordered and sensible world is about to simultaneously be pulled to pieces and completed by a tiny tornado tot with sea changing blue eyes.This is a story of how Mycroft became a big brother and how his little sibling grew up.
Relationships: Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes, Sherlock Holmes & Sherlock Holmes' Father & Sherlock Holmes' Mother
Series: The Families of Sherlock Holmes [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1675132
Comments: 42
Kudos: 63





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story is part of a much bigger alternate universe where everything stays the same pretty much up until S2 then shoots off in a completely different line.
> 
> This is set way before that. So we can explore the background of OUR Sherlock. Hope you enjoy!
> 
> Tags will be updated as we progress.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet Holmes takes a concerning phone call, and Grace fends for herself. As usual. 
> 
> _It cannot be, when the root is neglected, that what should spring from it will be well ordered_ \- Confucius

**April 1979**

  
The phone in the study rings early, but Violet is up anyway.

Her ability to sleep through the night has been completely ruined by menopause. Night sweats at just 38 are the worst thing, but a nice cup of tea and some time with a magazine and the kitchen window open usually helps.

It only gets to three rings before she has picked up the receiver. It wouldn’t do to let it wake the rest of the sleeping household.

“Hello. Mintonbury 7538. The Holmes residence.”

“Violet. Vi. It’s Deme. I- Sorry for ringing so late, early, in the dark… but...” The other woman sounds vague and there’s a thread of disinterest in her voice even though she has made the call.

Violet settles onto the antique mahogany desk chair, this may take a while. 

“Deme. It’s-” She can’t say it’s fine. It’s not fine. Demeter is obviously drunk; that’s about the only time she calls these days. “I was up anyway. How can I help you, dear?”

“I need someone to... look after Gracie.”

“Now, Demeter? Is everything alright?”

“No. Yes. I mean. It’s all perfect, isn’t it? I’m not… So no Vi, not now. Just…” 

A long pause. Violet hears Demeter snuffle a bit unsure of what to say next but obviously wanting to talk.

“She’s hard work, Vi. I mean two year olds are, but… she’s not like my friend’s children. She is so stubborn and… if things aren’t the way she expects she just cries. I’m not a bad mother. Vi. I don’t know what happened to our little sunshine. She was so good, a darling, before Bill...” She cuts off here and Violet can hear that she’s crying.

“I know, Deme. But we’ve been through this. You call me upset, asking to see me and then when I come you’re out, or you won’t let me in. I last saw Grace, three months ago? Her second birthday, and then a couple of times after that in February. She barely knows who I am.”

“Oh, she knows exactly who you are. She asks for you. When she wants to speak to me…”

“Does she indeed? Well, maybe I can come tomorrow, dear? Have you slept?”

“I- no. Not really.”

“Is Grace asleep?”

“Erm…”

“Demeter?”

“Yes, yes! She’s asleep!”

“Alright, dear. Well why don’t you have a glass of water and head to bed too.”

“But, Vi. I can’t. I can’t keep doing this. When I close my eyes…”

“I know, Deme. I can’t even imagine how it feels. But you still have Gracie, and she needs you to be her mother. So go to bed, and I will try to come tomorrow. Hugh and Mycroft are dead set on some lecture or other in Cambridge, so I have the whole day.”

“Okay. Bye Vi. See you… tomorrow.”

The line goes dead and Violet sighs heavily to herself. The whole situation makes her quite anxious.

The death of her nephew, Bill, unexpectedly, just ten months previously had shaken the entire family to core, and they’re still very much in a state of limbo over it. He’d seemed absolutely healthy but an undetected heart condition had felled him whilst he slept. No wonder Demeter is struggling with the whole thing. 

And of course since he was born, Violet who had been a teenager at the time, had been incredibly close to him.

He’d always been such a sweet little thing, the youngest of her sister Lillian’s brood of four, following his beloved Aunt around at family gatherings and always asking for cuddles and his 'Viye'. They’d remained close as he grew into adulthood so much so that it was often Violet who he went to for help and advice rather than his mother.

So it’s natural that Deme should turn to Violet as some sort of kindred spirit; a guide of sorts, someone who had loved her husband just as fiercely, but differently.

Grace, who has enough of her late father about her to always make Violet do a double take, had been a bonny little tot just 18 months old when he died and already bright as a button, but also prone to being as awkward as her mother described. It hadn’t just been after her ‘Papa’ had died, Demeter just can’t process that right now, but in fact Bill had always found her mercurial moods easier to manage than his wife, probably because Grace and her mother were rather too alike in that respect.

Bill had been very involved with Grace. Both his and Demeter’s careers, he a Vintner and she a rather in demand actress, had been worked around each other so they could juggle the demands of having a baby. And it had turned out fine for the most part. Bill would rather stay home when not working or pack up the car and take Grace with him on a ferry to France whilst Demeter filmed wherever, and then they’d meet up and spend time at the vineyard, before Deme would fly back to the UK with Grace. Sometimes Grace would have to be left with a friend of the family but those instances had been few and far between.

Now work is sporadic for Demeter since she’s a shadow of her former self. And being home alone with Grace she seems to be struggling more and more. And it’s not as if Lillian can help, as since her MS diagnosis five years ago she’s been able to do less and less. She tries but she’s also a grieving mother and the stress only makes her symptoms worse.

Violet will definitely make the trip across to London tomorrow. She needs to put her mind at rest.

* * *

Awake and in my bed. Am I hungry? Not sure. I’m wet... again. Soaking. Stupid nappy. I don’t like it. Why can’t I stay dry at night? Bad body.

The house is quiet. Not noisy like before bed. No shouting, laughing, music.

Wiggle wiggle. Where’s O-Bear? Lost in covers!

No. No. O-BEAR? Where are you? Look. Feel. There!

O-BEAR! Hugs. Can’t lose you!

Where’s Maman?

“Maman.”

Nothing.

Louder...

“Maman! Maman?”

Nope.

She is not coming. I’ll get up. Take O-Bear. Out of bed and…

Spin spin spin… to...

Door. Stretch, reach handle. I’m tall, I can... OPEN! And… 

Oh the gate! It’s a stupid gate. Think, Grace. Oh, the desk chair. Pull the little chair… drop O-Bear down first, and me up and over. Down.

Ow!

Twisty foot. That hurts. Can I use it? Yes. A little limpy.

Walk to Maman’s room. It smells bad in here. There are a lot of bottles. They stink too. The same stink. Yuck. Maman is still asleep. Is there a man? Extra shapes in bed? No. Good.

Up onto bed. 

Oh the fluffy blanket. Stroke. So nice and soft.

Oh Maman’s bed is so springy, not like the boring foam mattress on mine. Should I..? Bouncy! Bouncy!

“Maman. Wake up, Maman! S’morning!”

“Wha? Gracie? How did you… never mind I… STOP THAT YOU! I’m gonna… STOP IT! No BOUNCING!”

Maman's hand through the air. On my arm. Ouch! Stings! I make no noise. Maman doesn’t like it. I'm big. I can be brave.

Freeze! Stay still? No. Need to move. Shake shake hands. Shake. Shake shake.

Maman says stop moving. Don’t cry! Cry? Am I crying? Yes, but not loud. Fingers into mouth and hug O-Bear so tight under arm. Be quiet, Gracie. Maman is saying something. Angry at me. Shouting now. But can’t hear the words. Banging inside my head. Feel wrong. 

Another smack but it doesn’t hurt the same. Body another place.

Close eyes and too many colours inside.

I stay. Wait.

Wait. Body feels still not my own.

Banging inside head slows down. Stops. Peek open eyes. No Maman. She’s gone somewhere else. Another room.

I can get up. My hands still want to shake. My tummy is squeezing funny. I hug O-Bear extra tight. O-BEAR helps with stupid feelings.

I got out back to the landing. Walk quiet. Creep. Not that floorboard. It’s noisy.

She’s in toilet? Sounds funny. Bad yucky noises. Don’t stay here, Grace. Still angry Maman.

I downstairs, careful. No silly gate. Don’t slip. I can do stairs! 

Kitchen.

Stupid soggy nappy. Off off, and in yucky bucket by washing machine. I can be big at daytime. Only wet when sleepy. No knickers here though… oh well. Who needs knickers? Not me!

I am hungry. Cereal cupboard. And a little bowl. I can’t reach spoons and the chairs are too big. Never mind. Just having cereal.

Where do I eat? Safe, safe, somewhere safe.

Ah! Under the table. I feel safe here.

Crunchy crunchy. The best cereal. Tiny picky crispy rice. Eat piece by piece.

Noise. Maman! She can’t see me.

“Grace? GRACE? Sweetheart. I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have shouted. Gracie? Where are you, darling?”

Hide. Cover eyes.

Her footsteps. Close. Close. Close. 

Make me small.

“Gracie. I know you’re under the table. You’re always under the table. Silly little thing.”

Peek peek. There’s Maman looking in. Maman reaches in. Maman says I'm silly. Says I'm little. Not a big girl? No nappy, Maman. Look, I have cereal!

“Come on, ma petite.”

Same hand that smack finds my knee but a gentle tickle.

Hate gentle… it burns.

“No!” I shout and kick my feet. Ow, I knock the foot I hurt. I cry just a bit.

“Alright… Don’t kick me! Oh… Shit. Maman’s really sorry, Gracie. I’m just so tired darling and I don’t feel well, so please? Come out. I won’t be angry anymore. I promise.”

I stay at back of table. Myself against the kitchen wall.

Maman starts crying. She cries. Her crying hurts my ears. My head gets full, full, full again. Her crying is a wrong purple colour and it whistles.

I don’t know when she stops. But I blinky and notice she gets up, fills the kettle, whoosh, and it makes the hot bubbly sound. She makes tea. No milk… but I really want milk. Will have to move. I go to edge of table. And peep out.

“Maman… I sorry.” I always sorry. I did it. My fault. Grace not a good girl. “Milk, please Maman?”

“I… fine. Yes, there’s milk. I can do milk if that’s what you want.”

“Okay, Maman.”

I crawl out, and Maman gets me milk. She crouches down to me. Ruffles my hair with her spare hand. Not nice but I have to not get upset.

“There you go, poppet. You’re going to be good now. Aren’t you? You know I love you, Gracie? So you have to be good.”

I do love Maman, and she must love me because she says so...

“Mmmhmmm. I be good. Love you too, Maman.”

  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed that chapter. It was so much fun writing little Sherlock, or as we call him whilst writing Gracelock. Just because we’re still writing him as an adult for later parts and it’s less confusing!


	2. Starting Blocks

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Holmes household grows by one as little Grace drops into their lives, and Mycroft has to step up to being in the role of 'big brother' for the first time in his life.

**August 1979**

  
The first Mycroft knows that something has changed is when Claudine, this year’s au pair, wakes him for breakfast and Mummy and Daddy are missing. Well not missing. They are definitely still in bed, just not at breakfast, which is most unusual. There’s evidence of coffee and toast on the side next to the sink. His father’s favourite mug, two plates for toast and a little glass which had been used for apple juice, by his mother. He’s glad Claudine has left them to wash up once they are finished with their own breakfast dishes, as this gives him a headstart on what’s going on.

“Why are my parents still in bed, Claudine? Why were they still awake after midnight? Did they get bad news?” He knows there’s an ancient aunt, great, maybe two greats even, who lives in France who his mother is still very close to from when she was younger.

“Sort of. I think. They just had a busy time over the night. The- er… what do you say…? The lady who looks after children called them. Said they must come right away.”

That pulls him up short. And then he remembers. A social worker. He really hadn’t been interested when they had been introduced a month ago. His parents already had him, why on earth would they want another child. But his mother had been quite insistent on it. And the stupid woman, Claire he seems to recall, had asked him all sorts of inane questions about how it was living with his parents and if he’d be happy to have other children in the house. He had answered as honestly as he felt he could, without making his feelings exactly known. He certainly hadn’t put his parents' hope of possible fostering in danger and had certainly not done anything to discourage them either; he knows Mummy and Daddy are quite a law unto themselves but he is starting to think maybe he should have done. Very small babies disgust him, they all look the same and take so much care, and toddlers aren’t much better. He really hopes they realise what they are getting themselves and him into.

“So you’re telling me they just went off last night. For a foster child, I presume?” 

“Oh little Mykie. You speak so strangely. But yes. You can presume.” Claudine laughs and then carries on eating her own breakfast.

Mycroft wonders, as he butters his own second slice of toast and gives it a generous layer of thick cut lemon marmalade, what type of dubious little human is about to be foisted upon him, and how much attention he will be expected to give them. After all, he is 10 now and he has to take his studies seriously. Plus, he can hardly be expected to feel anything for a child who has really nothing to do with him.

As he’s not in any rush to meet them he takes the rest of his toast at a leisurely pace and then goes and picks up one of the few delivered papers from the porch to read in the sitting room; there's obviously no prospect of his parents rising soon, and Claudine will only continue chattering whilst she does the dishes if he stays in the kitchen. 

Mummy is still very strict about newspapers at the breakfast table and he knows Claudine enforces her rules, so he does now feel behind on the proceedings of the wider world. He also thinks it is an incredibly silly rule and one he will definitely not be adhering to when he is grown up.

He settles down in his favorite chair near the window in the sitting room and is soon lost in the vagaries of the current political situation, plus general interest stories as reported in the Times.

He is just contemplating finding a pencil to start the crossword when the uneasy feeling of being watched prickles across his person. He knows logically this is because his brain has already heard the noise of them or seen a glimpse of whomever it is that wasn’t consciously registered. He lowers his newspaper.

On the footstool just a few yards away is what Mycroft can only describe as an urchin, as they look like something out of Dickens. They’re sitting with their knees pulled right up to their neck, and their hair is a wild tangle of dark brown curls just reaching their shoulders. They’ve been freshly washed by someone unaccustomed to dealing with curly hair. His mother. The child is probably two, and he assumes they’re a girl child as his mother seems to have dressed them in a flouncy flower print nightie. It’s a little big for them so that only serves to enhance the urchinity Mycroft noted first.

She is staring at him, her striking blue green eyes seem to be trying to figure out if he’s friend or foe. She looks like she might bolt or attack depending on how the next few seconds pan out. He’ll have to be careful.

“Hello. I’m Mycroft Holmes. I live here.” He speaks quietly, the way his father tells him to behave in the garden with animals. 

No response, not a verbal one anyway. She shrunk back a little as he spoke. Little children aren’t usually this silent, at least that’s what he’s been led to believe. This is unnerving.

Something about the little child is tugging at his remembrance. He’s certain he knows her. This isn’t just any foster child. This is different… 

“Grace? You’re Grace Sherlock-Scott!” He remembers the little girl, the daughter of his cousin, her father, who had sadly passed away suddenly fourteen months ago. They’d spent Christmas with her and her widowed mother, at his aunt’s house. They hadn’t spent much time other than meals together as he’d been mostly engrossed in trying to read the entirety of the large house’s library, so he doesn’t really know her that well. But he knows she is close to his mother.

Still nothing verbal. Only suspicion. And whilst he is sure this is his tiny cousin, he has little to no way of reasoning why she is here with them given his own mother has recently bathed and redressed this child and she is so unforthcoming with information.

Actually thinking of his mother, how did this little one get down here? She obviously slept in the box room which his parents kept the cot in since they started trying for another baby, and then his mother couldn’t bring herself to move when she had been told it was quite impossible. And neither of them would have thought or had time to take off the side to make it suitable for a toddler. Plus there’s a stairgate still there from when he was a toddler and quite a high handle on the door of that room.

“You broke out of your room, didn’t you? Well done.” He says genuinely impressed.

Her face pinches up, and her eyes narrow, but she sits up a little at the praise, and while she doesn’t smile, there’s a suggestion she is pleased with herself. She still understands then, just doesn’t speak. Maybe she can’t, or won’t. He’ll have to observe her more closely to determine that.

Almost on cue there is a shriek from upstairs. His mother has just checked in on their newest arrival then, fully expecting her to still be in her room 

As the noise registers with the little girl she looks around startled and darts for cover behind Mycroft's armchair. He kneels up, peeks over the headrest, and watches as she makes herself as tiny as possible shoving the fingers of her little hand into her mouth for comfort and covering over her eyes and face with her other arm. She’s obviously terrified.

Claudine has already come out of the kitchen to the hallway to see what the racket is and is just about to yell something up the stairs, probably in French as that’s how she usually talks to his mother.

Mycroft rushes to intercept her.

“Be quiet,” he hisses, “the little girl is scared enough as it is. She’ll be even more upset if you start yelling.”

Just then his mother appears having come down the back stairs. She is still in her pyjamas only her dressing gown hastily thrown over and her hair is in a disarray. This is highly unusual for his mother. He has never seen her this unsettled. Normally, she is very composed and well dressed, even in sleep wear.

Something strange must have happened to agitate his mother to this amount.

“Mykie? Have you seen…?”

“Grace? Be quiet. She’s in the living room behind the armchair by the window. She hid when you shouted.”

“Did you let her out?! She wasn’t there when I looked...” There’s a real edge to her voice, much more irritated than she'd normally be with him. 

“No, she’s just obviously very clever. She definitely let herself out," he himself responds much more fiercely as a reaction to being accused without any reason, "Unfortunately, she’s scared that you made a lot of noise. Maybe be quieter when you go in, Mother.”

“You’re such a bossy child, Mycroft. Now go and tell your father I found her. He’s in the attic just in case she snuck up there. Also he needs to get a few of your old things down for her so he may as well do that now.” She nervously hurries into the sitting room and he can hear her talking in hushed tones, in what he is sure will be an entirely one-sided conversation. Never has he witnessed his mother being this imprudent. He wonders what is going on. That his mother's peculiar behavior is clearly related to the appearance of their little houseguest is obvious, it would be too great a coincidence for two of such uncommon occurrences to happen at the same time. The universe is rarely that lazy. 

However, he will have to investigate it at a later point, now he wants to give his mother and Grace some space. It seems to be necessary. More so, his father has to be informed.

When Mycroft reaches the top of the house he finds his father quietly calling their new charge’s name.

He jumps as Mycroft declares: “She’s downstairs, Daddy. Mummy is trying to coax her out from behind an armchair… She says I’m to help you sort things out.”

“Ah, I see. So you er, already met the little one then. Well, be a good boy and help me with these boxes from the top of that pile with your name on. Your stuff from when you were little is at the bottom. Not sure there’ll be a lot suitable for a little girl but we can get her some more things if we need them. And I’m sure the police will let us have her own things once they finish their investigation.”

“An investigation? What happened? Mummy’s acting oddly, I’ve not seen her this upset since Bill died. Has something happened to Demeter?

“Well there’s been… leave the boxes a minute and sit down, Myk.” His father says sitting onto a sturdy looking trunk.

Everything up here is coated in a thin layer of dust and Mycroft certainly does not want to sit down anywhere near any of it and would prefer if he wasn’t in the same room as it at all.

He palms the dust off a little stool he used to sit on as a tot around his little cousin’s age but should still take his weight, rubs it quickly off his hands and settles gingerly.

“Do you remember when we went up to your aunt’s for Christmas and Grace’s 2nd birthday? And that Deme was…”

“Drunk. Most of the time she was either drunk or evidently under the influence of something. We never really saw her before lunch. And of course I do, I'm not silly Daddy. Mummy spent her entire time looking after, Grace instead of Demeter. It wasn’t fair..”

“Well, I was going to say struggling but yes… Well Mummy and her had a bit of a conversation, and Demeter promised that she’d do better. And she did but you remember Claire? The social worker?”

It suddenly becomes clear to Mycroft what was happening, what was supposed to happen. Their little foster child was to be Grace all along.

“Well Mummy and I wanted to help Demeter, so we were arranging so that we could have Gracie here sometimes if Deme needed a break, and because Lillian had already gotten social services involved… well. That’s why Claire was just checking it would all work out okay.”

"Okay, then we should do our best to make it _'work out okay'_ ," Mycroft can't hide his aversion to such platitudes. His father looks at him gratefully anyway. Probably he has been afraid that Mycroft would dislike the idea of a little long-term visitor in the house. But that would be childish. What does his father take him for?

"We should get to work then," he says, "I'm not entirely sure how comfortable Mummy and Gracie are right now being alone together."

Daddy just gives a confirming nod and sets to dusting off a wooden highchair which Mycroft seems to remember converts into a little low chair and table.

Mycroft works down to the boxes his father pointed out and starts rummaging through for things that he thinks might be alright for Grace. He comes across several toys which make noises, he lays them aside for now. One he specifically decides is a bad idea is a Jack in the box. He doesn’t want to upset Grace anymore.

“Hey, what’s wrong with those? You really loved them when you were Grace’s age. Especially the Jack in the box.”

“Too noisy and sudden. She won’t like it.”

“Ah. Okay.” His father goes back to cleaning six years of dust off the highchair.

Soon Mycroft gets to the toys he is sure Grace will like, a few very soft teddies which look unplayed with and a lovely little cotton doll with various toggles, buttons, zips and laces she can practise doing and undoing. There’s also a little ‘radio’ which plays nursery rhyme tunes. Mycroft remembers it fondly, and he can show her how it works so it doesn’t shock her.

There’s an unused box of wax crayons and a pile of sugar paper. She might like drawing. He also finds a whole host of building blocks with letters and pictures on them, and a lovely abacus.

“Daddy? Will these do?”

“Oh, those are perfect Myk. Take a few bits downstairs to your mother and Grace, and then get Claudine to come up and help me get this highchair downstairs.”

Mycroft takes the building blocks and a teddy down. Those seem like things Grace may have seen before. He remembers they always have blocks out at the doctors in the village for little children to play with. 

Claudine is duly sent upstairs to Daddy, and Mycroft discovers Mummy is still trying to get Grace to relinquish her hiding spot behind the armchair.

Grace has quite bedded herself in and is now crying. But it’s just almost silent pitiful whimpering tears, the crying of a child accustomed to making as little noise as possible.

“Mummy. Try this.” Mycroft beckons his mother over, much softer now he has an understanding of why his mother is this unsettled, and offers her the teddy. “Leave it just beyond the chair where Grace can see it, then I’ll leave these over there by the table.” He indicates the box of blocks. “Maybe she’ll come out in her own time. She’s not hurting anyone being there anyway.”

“We can try, I suppose. I do really need her out, to change her. And this certainly isn’t working as a tactic. But then I’ve not seen her in months. I’m not sure she remembers me. Deme thinks, thought. Never mind...” His mother places the teddy just next to the green sofa where Grace can see it and Mycroft feels that her heart isn't fully into it. She looks distracted and a bit hopeless, although she has always been splendid in taking care of Grace - as far as he can remember. Also Grace has always seemed to enjoy his mother's attention. They both seem to be totally unhinged. He decides that he will have to take over some responsibilities until the situation has settled again. 

His mother encourages Mycroft to deposit the blocks and he goes along with it to give his mother the feeling to be in control. Afterwards she asks him to come and join her on the slightly worn brocade chaise longue at the other end of the sitting room that is her own favourite seat. They both settle down on it where they can just see if Grace moves but are far enough away. She has quietened already, though hasn’t moved yet.

“When did you see her last? I know you try and see Bill’s wife when you go to London.” Mycroft keeps his voice down so Grace doesn’t hear them; his mother answers in kind.

“The last few times I went, Deme wouldn’t let me into the house. I should have… I should have done something but I didn’t want to upset things too much, I didn’t think it was that bad… And then. But you really shouldn’t worry about all of this. You’re just a child, Myk. Anyway, I best tell you as much as I can as Daddy obviously didn't and before you read it in those damned papers you love so much. Demeter’s... dead; they’re not exactly sure what happened, and the whole house is out of bounds whilst they figure it out. So little Grace only has us now. Lillian can’t have her, she’s too unwell herself.”

Mycroft can see that she is holding back tears. But his mother being his mother, she probably doesn't want to burden him with her grief. Mycroft let's her be, doesn't want to put even more pressure on her. Subtle support, that's what she needs right now.

“I mean she’s family already, a little cousin. It's obvious that we will look after her." 

“Well yes, of course. She needs lots of looking after. And then maybe if we’re all very good at it they’ll let us keep her. I mean they’re not taking her away. I just... We’ll see.”

“You mean you’ll get to adopt her. Then she’d be my real sister.”

“Yes, exactly. And look, she’s moving. You were right, you clever boy. That’s Gil-bear.” This moniker is handwritten on the teddy’s t-shirt in some kind of fabric paint and his mother says it as one word, the way of saying Gilbert in French. Tedious. “In fact, I think Aunt Lillian made him for you when you were a baby, she likes a pun and you know how obsessed she is with teddy bears. Grace seems quite taken with him, I’m almost certain her favourite bear at home was similar. What was it called?” His mother loses herself in her thoughts for a moment and Mycroft waits for her to come out of her distraction, which she does. “Sorry. It’ll come to me later I’m sure. Good choice, Mykie.”

Gil-bear is mostly being squeezed very tightly, and Grace is eyeing up the blocks with suspicion and disdain, but it’s a start.

What it’s mostly the start of is Grace not going anywhere without Gil-bear. Later that morning when his mother takes her upstairs to change her out of her nightwear for the day it’s a careful game of, ‘Well you hold him with that hand, whilst I do this sleeve, then if you hold him in the other, I can do that one.’ 

Mycroft listens in on the exchange at first, and then, curious, goes to see how it is all working. It seems they're both calming down and getting used to each other again. Mycroft is glad to see it. He has to stifle a laugh when Grace resorts to holding Gil-bear between her teeth whilst his mother wrestles her into a pair of brown corduroy dungarees, with flowers on the pocket. The dungarees quite suit her, and she looks more comfortable in those than she did in that quite frankly hideous nightie.

“So that’s what was in all those bin bags you brought home last week from book club. I was dreading that they might be hand-me-downs for me! Had you already arranged to have her now then?”

“Oh no, Mykie! I was actually getting them ready to take down to London. This was… Unexpected. We were working up to her staying over but... ” She trails off again evidently too distressed to keep talking about whatever's happened to Demeter.

His mother is trying to tame Grace’s hair with a couple of bunches but Grace pulls at each pony tail as soon as it’s in and throws the tie to the floor. Upon the third time of the same happening Violet gives up. 

“Oh well, no one can say I didn’t try to stop you looking like a scarecrow, Gracie.” His mother says hoisting Grace up on her hip. “Let’s go back downstairs and see if Uncle Hugh has managed to get that highchair sorted, and you can have something to eat. You must be hungry.”

Except Grace isn’t hungry. She steadfastly refuses nearly all food Mycroft’s mother or Claudine offers, mostly by either pushing it off the table or by turning her head and ignoring it completely until it’s taken away; it doesn’t help that Violet has predictably had to sandwich Gil-bear into the seat with Grace. The poor teddy who was practically pristine before now has a smear of lemon curd on his forehead from where Grace threw a sandwich of it, and is covered in crumbs of cream cracker the only food Grace had deigned to touch, only to lick the butter off and crumble them into pieces.

“Well she’s had her quota of fats for the day, at least. Demeter…” His mother’s tired voice catches on the name. “She did always say Grace was difficult to feed but this is ridiculous.”

And so the pattern continues until bedtime. Everyone tries to interact with Grace and make her smile, or play or do anything you would usually expect of an older two year old, only to be met with a blank look or a scowl. All food is summarily refused, even things offered in a floor picnic, which Mycroft recalls as a massive treat from toddlerhood. None of the other toys Mycroft liberated from the attic are touched, although Grace is very interested in several things that are not for little children like Mycroft’s chess set, Daddy’s telescope and various assorted of Mummy’s knitting needles which are swiftly hidden. Basically, if she’s told she is not to touch it she does anyway. By the evening Mycroft is contemplating asking his parents for a lock on his door.

The days afterwards pass in a similar vein. Grace is fiercely independent, wildly obstinate and intractably clingy in a pattern indiscernible to his parents. If she cries at all she tries to stifle the tears and stay quiet. She’s still not spoken. And, of course, his mother is grieving too. So his father and Claudine have to try and hold down the fort. Grace, of course, runs them ragged.

By day three she has at least started drinking full fat milk offered to her in a sippy cup, and she likes pasta but only the tube, penne, ones. Sauce on it is an anathema. Breakfast cereal is also eaten dry with fingers. Fruit is avoided as if it is radioactive material. 

On the fourth day they experience their first proper screaming tantrum. It can only be described as epic. Grace, still yet to speak but now confident that this isn’t a house where she will come into difficulty for making noise, screams and cries for long enough that she makes herself sick. All over his mother attempting to put a little pair of fuzzy socks on her feet as she has quite awful chilblains. 

Mycroft starts making observation notes. He has to try and understand her better as it seems like the adults are failing so far.

On day five Mycroft dons his wellingtons, grabs his umbrella and prepares to walk into the village to swap his books at the library. He also wants to see if he can’t discharge a few parenting help books on his mother’s card, as they need all the assistance they can get, and there are a lot of things he is worried about with Grace. 

She watches him curiously from the living room doorway as he gets into his outdoor clothes, and then she picks up her own shoes and offers them to him. Does she expect him to help her put them on? They’re little canvas plimsolls and hardly suitable for the weather. Are those the only ones she has with her? Surely his mother still has his old wellies from when he was little in those attic boxes.

“Do you want to go out too?”

She shakes the shoes at him.

“Well that’s a nice idea, but she’s far too little to walk all that way. There’s a folding pushchair still in the car for her, but it’s probably a bit much for you. Claudine and I will take her out later.”

It’s the au pair’s morning off and she is in her room writing letters home so is no help at all right now.

“Did you hear, Grace? Mummy… Auntie Violet will take you out later.” 

He walks around Grace towards the door, his brolly now in hand and satchel slung over his shoulder. Grace steps in front of him still shaking the shoes at him. Her little eyes are bright with challenge.

“No, Grace dearest.” Mycroft says in the most gentle tone he can muster. “Auntie Violet says not now.”

She crowds her back up to the door, shoes still resolutely held in front of her. Mycroft recognises a barricade when he sees one. For all her reluctance on a lot of things Grace is tenacious when she wants to be.

“Mummy. She’s still holding out her shoes, and now I can’t leave! Come and move her!”

“I can’t, Myk! I’m at a crucial moment with this meringue. You’ll just have to go around her.”

“I-” he starts to shout back. He has an idea. “Oh, never mind…” 

He makes sure he is definitely all ready, and darts into the sitting room to take the long route to the back door. After a few paces Grace follows. But he easily outruns her and slips out of the back door leaving Grace still in the dining room. He hears the ear splitting wailing start as he reaches the end of the garden path, but he can’t go back. He has to do _this_ for Grace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are so enjoying writing this story for you all and were so heartened and thankful for your comments. We look forward to you continuing on this journey with us.


	3. Cupboard Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft has a breakthrough, but Grace has a breakdown. Can Mycroft draw Grace back out of herself or will she keep shutting him out?

Mycroft is well and truly in Grace’s bad books for the next few days. So she gives him short shrift whenever she sees him, her face pinching into an angry pout and then she ignores him completely, which is fine, as she is easier to observe this way. Plus it gives him uninterrupted time to read the books he got from the library. They’re rather interesting and certainly highlight what Grace should be doing compared to where she is. 

He has also requested another couple of titles, all on Mummy’s card as they will only let him take out certain titles on his own card, but on his next visit he has to take her with him, as they nearly didn’t let him loan them this time. Of course, he no longer gets out his own books from the children’s library either, as it’s been beneath him for a number of years, but the list of books he is allowed as an ‘advanced young reader’ doesn’t stretch to everything from the adult section.

The notes he is making on Grace’s behaviour are starting to take up a sizeable portion of his notebook already, even considering the short time she’s been with them. She really is quite an interesting case. Of course, he doesn’t let his parents know what the notes are for so he writes them in code. He’s quite good at those. Mummy and Daddy could, naturally, decipher it but they don’t tend to bother with those sorts of things. They aren’t stupid at all, not by general standards but these days they do tend to get quite preoccupied with other things in a way that means Mycroft can be overlooked, which is somewhat useful in this instance.

Grace is finally, at least, playing with things other than Gil-bear. Especially since she’s had some new toys bought for her. 

The day before yesterday, Mummy had taken them both into the city, to buy new things for Grace. They had been given the clothes and a few things from her house, but lots of them had been in bad repair and stained so Mummy had thrown a lot out and declared they needed to go shopping.

Grace had fussed in the buggy during the entire trip; struggling against the straps, pouting her little face at everyone and hiding under the cotton blanket Mummy had put over her legs as it was a windy day. It had been trying, to say the least. But Mycroft had concentrated on the task at hand and in the Lewis’s department store toy section had spotted some Duplo. Knowing how much fun Lego construction is – he’d gotten a smashing London Bus for a birthday a few years ago and had since made all sorts of planes, trains and town buildings- he had considered that maybe Grace would like it. So he asked Mummy if Grace could have some and of course she had said yes. Mummy had also gotten her some dolls and things but she hadn’t touched them yet. She has been rather much more into the Duplo.

Watching Grace play with the construction toy is fascinating, and takes up pages in Mycroft’s notes. All the colour and size sorting she does with it is appropriate for her age of development, but the things she likes to make are odd. She keeps near replicating the basic shapes of household items and putting her little creations next to the object then dragging one of the grown ups to see her attempted copies. She seems to have a great eye for detail, certainly something Mycroft would like to see fostered.

She’s playing with it now as Mycroft sits on the chaise longue writing. But she is somewhat distressed by her inability to hold Gil-bear and continue to play, so much so that in the end Claudine gets so fed up at consoling the toddler that she makeshifts a baby sling for the bear out of a soft old blue scarf of Daddy’s and ties it so Grace has her hands free.

The relief on Grace’s face is instant. She even forgets herself and comes to show Mycroft.

“That’s very clever. Well done, Claudine. Now, Grace. Would you like to do some drawing?”

It’s really one of those things Mycroft has been desperate to see Grace do for his notes, especially as he’s yet to see her really tackle cutlery. He’s almost certain pasta isn’t that difficult to get on a fork. 

Luckily, Grace assents to his suggestion and soon, with Claudine’s help, they are set up at the table in the sunroom with pencils, wax crayons and paper. Grace grabs a pencil and some paper right away, and obviously loves drawing. And again she’s good at it; in fact, she's brilliant. Mycroft can really appreciate how much further ahead in this skill she is than her age suggests. Her drawings are incredibly detailed. Yes, a lot of the shapes may be a little wonky but that’s immature motor skills rather than a lack of observation on Grace’s part. 

One of the drawings Mycroft recognises is a house; one that is more complex even than Mycroft would expect of a much older child, according to his library books. From what Mycroft remembers of where his cousin and wife had lived it’s probably meant to be Grace’s home; her old home, that is. She can hardly live there anymore. This is her home now. He of course doesn’t point this out. He’s not cruel.

“Your house, Grace. Very good.”

“Maman.” She says quietly and more than a little sadly. It’s the first actual word she has spoken in the nearly two weeks she has been with them. His mother had explained to the toddler about what had happened to her mother. But considering Grace’s erratic behaviour and lack of any response they could quantify they hadn’t been sure what she’d understood.

Suddenly she's crying, little hiccoughing sobs accompanied by round fat tears that roll down her cheeks and drip over the drawings.

Mycroft has no idea what to do, but Grace is getting more and more upset, shaking her hands and biting her lower lip, so he pulls her cushion bolstered chair closer and she immediately crawls herself into his lap and grips tightly onto his shirt, burying her now snotty little face into the white fabric.

He tentatively wraps his arms around her still far too spare body which shudders slightly under his touch and she whines as if she’s in pain, so he pulls back but she doesn’t stop crying or clinging on.

“Oh, Grace. I wish I understood you…” he murmurs.

His mother obviously hearing the sobbing comes rushing in from the kitchen.

“Mykie? What did you do?! If you upset her...”

“Nothing Mummy, I swear. She said Maman, then she burst into tears! We were drawing. Look, that’s her house.” He nods over at the picture.

“She spoke to you? And Grace drew this? But that’s… you didn’t even draw this well at her age... She’s only two, Mycroft! You are a clever girl, Gracie. Let me take her Mykie, and go change your shirt. Aunt Lilian and Uncle Arthur will be here soon and I can’t have you looking a state. I don’t want them thinking we can’t cope. Gracie? Grandmere’s coming, ma petite, remember? She tells me that she’s missed you very much. Come on, now let go of Mycroft. Don’t be silly.”

Grace keeps her face very firmly into his chest, not looking and stiffens in Mycroft’s arms as his mother talks to her, and puts her hands to the toddler to try and lift her from Mycroft. He feels Grace’s grip on him tighten too. Then his lap is suddenly warm and wet.

“It’s alright Mummy. I’ll take her with me and get her dressed. Someone’s had a little accident. So now I require clean trousers too.”

“Oh Grace!” Mummy tuts. “You know where the potty is sweetheart. That was very naughty! And Mykie, only if you’re sure. I do still have to make up the spare room for Lillian and Arthur, and check on the roast and everything else…” She is already half on her way to the kitchen when she says it, agitated and nervous as she only ever is when they get visitors. Mycroft is familiar with it by now, and doesn’t pay too much attention to it. She will get back to normal, when they are on their own again.

Mycroft finally manages to pry the toddler off his lap by gently taking hold of her wrists and sort of pushing her away. She’s stopped crying but she’s still sort of folded in on herself. He manages to steer her to the stairs and then persuade her to follow him up but she won’t look at him. She’s embarrassed, scared. Maybe she thinks he’s angry.

She freezes at the top of the stairs so he gets behind her and sort of shunts her to the bathroom and when he gets her inside he checks to see if… yes, there is still a change of clothes for Grace in the airing cupboard where Mummy leaves them in case of accidents. They’re warm from being up against the hot water tank still running even in the heat of summer.

“Here we are. You like this blouse and these trousers. Come on, Grace. It’s alright. Let’s just get off those wet things…”

She lets him remove the soggy clothes which he throws into the bath running some cold water in so they don’t stain or bleach out. Her eyes drift off somewhere up to the ceiling so she doesn’t have to look, and her little hands threaten that flicking motion she’s done a few times already when she’s been upset. Notably at what Mycroft has dubbed ‘Sockgate’, the incident of the first proper tantrum over fluffy foot covers. At least that’s what he’d written in his notes; characterising his cousin’s tantrums as if they were political scandals has a certain appeal to someone so interested as in the workings of the wider world after all.

“I’m not angry with you…. Why don’t you sit on the potty and see if there’s anymore… wee-wee.” Mycroft hates that word but knows that’s what his mother uses with Grace. “I’ll go change my clothes then I’ll come back to help you with yours.”

She obeys and sits on the little lurid pink plastic pot, whilst Mycroft grabbing a dampened washcloth strips down to his own pants and sponges his thighs down then takes his shirt off, and puts it into the laundry basket, throwing his own trousers on top of Grace’s before scrambling to his own room to find another pair of trousers. He finds a pressed khaki pair that he supposes will have to do and hops into them, then finds a complementary shirt. He catches sight of his mother grabbing some sheets off the line and opens the window to shout down to her.

“I’m changed Mummy! Gracie is halfway there. Just seeing if she needed to actually… urinate… or something else.”

“Well done dear!”

He leaves the window open, as his room may as well air and goes back to the bathroom to find Grace. What he finds instead is one knocked over potty, which has obviously had some urine in it, one of mummy’s best towels soaking up the mess, no toddler and the little flowery blouse and caramel trousers still laid out over the edge of the bath.

Oh no.

“Grace? Where are you?” He calls quietly out onto the landing so no one else hears. She can’t have gone far. He quickly runs downstairs and finds Claudine dusting in the living room, Grace would have to have passed her if she came down at all.

“Lost something Mykie?”

“Oh just… erm playing a bit of hide and seek with Grace. She must still be upstairs.”

He checks his parents room, but to no avail, then Grace’s little room. Claudine’s is locked so she’s not in there. Either his own or the guest room then.

Well, the only way she’d be in his own was if he was an imbecile and didn’t notice an entire half nude two year old. Ridiculous. But then he has lost the same two year old. His heart feels like it’s pounding in his chest. He’s scared. Maybe he’s going to be a terrible big brother.

So the guest room. No obvious sign there. Except. Oh Gil-bear fallen under the edge of the bed. He rescues the lost bear. So she must be here somewhere.Then he hears it. Faint little sobs from the cupboard in the corner of the room, the one built into the surprisingly deep alcove next to the old fireplace. He opens it carefully to find Grace snivelling inside. She looks at him wide-eyed, terror written into the creases of her tear streaked face.

She’s shaking hard and her hands are balled into tight fists. 

“Hello. Come out little one. Come on. I told you. I’m not angry with you. It was an accident… I have Gil-bear here.”

She squeezes her eyes shut and buries her chin tightly into her chest so she's as tiny as possible. No chance he can get her to come out like that. 

He tucks Gil-bear in next to her, maybe that’ll help her calm a little and closing the door gently looks around to see if there’s anything that may help.

In the bedside drawers he finds a little torch in case of a power cut and he pulls a cotton bed blanket off the top of the ottoman where his mother has left them ready for the bed to be remade. Grace might be cold if she’s shaking.

Armed he opens the door again.

Grace is unchanged. But there is just enough room for him to get into the other side of the cupboard, so he does. 

Closing the door the cupboard is almost completely dark, and wonders if there is something about the small dark space Grace finds comforting? He can’t examine that now so he files the thought for later.

He speaks softly.

“Grace? I’m going to switch this torch on so I can at least see my hand in front of my face.”

The sobbing slows but doesn’t stop. Her breathing sounds heavy and her nose congested. Mycroft checks his pocket for a hanky but doesn’t use it on Grace. She screamed last time anyone tried to help her wipe her nose, he’ll see if he can get her to calm before he even attempts it.

He puts the lit torch between them. The light casts eerie shadows from the strange assortment of things in the cupboard. He’s not scared… the cupboard must be safe. A mere toddler thought it was a good place to hide after all.

“Grace.” Mycroft has read in his books that it helps to always use small children’s names to get their attention as it’s still developing, especially when they are upset or stressed.“I’m just going to cover you over with a blanket. You look cold.”

“Mmmmmmmph.” The noise is dismissive but she lets him lay the blanket over her and he catches that she regrips her little hands into the fabric, bunching and pulling it around herself. She’s still shaking but Mycroft wonders if that is perhaps stress rather than being cold.

They sit for long moments in the half light, Grace's snuffly breaths becoming less laboured and distressed. 

He waits. And nearly jumps out of his own skin when a hand brushes against his own. He knocks the hand away sharply, but as his brain catches up he realises it was only Grace searching for him for comfort in the dark. The sudden movement must shock her as he hears her scramble back into the corner of the cupboard sobbing even more disconsolately. She knocks the torch off as she goes and plunges them into proper darkness again. He feels awful. He has to get her to stop crying again, otherwise someone will hear them and come looking. He can only hope his mother has the wireless on in the kitchen.

“Shhhh… Grace. I’m sorry. You scared me. I’ll…” He’ll what? He couldn’t ruin this even more if he tried. He must think, and then he remembers from somewhere in his young childhood lullabies his mother used to sing with him, mostly in French. He hopes Grace finds this comforting.

He starts with ‘Frere Jacques’, and that does quieten her a little. He then alternates between the few others that he knows. Grace seems to slowly calm down, although she doesn't seem to fully relax. She creeps a bit closer to Mycroft, but keeps her distance. At least the sobbing has stopped. Mycroft doesn't quite know how to proceed. He can sense that Grace isn't ready or willing to leave her shelter yet, but his options are very limited sitting in this cramped space in the dark with no supplies whatsoever. So singing, or rather humming and murmuring, it is for the moment. It seems to be the most innocent and less harmful thing to do, considering he can't estimate if directly speaking to Grace or reaching out to her would be too much and scare her away again. 

However, he's never cared for nursery rhymes or children's songs much. His repertoire is limited. He rather enjoys his father's collection of classics and swing. But it would be rather difficult to reproduce for Grace now, considering the sparse contents of the cupboard, mostly barely used spare linens and various bits of hobby equipment that might only get an outing once a year.

Suddenly, he hears a very little sigh next to him, so he repeats the lullaby he's currently singing. He goes over ‘Au clair de la lune’ several times before he feels a small shivering although warm blanket wrapped body press into his side. Hesitantly he lays his arm around the little girl's shoulders and pulls her gently closer, gingerly. He deliberately doesn't pay her any other attention and just keeps singing and after a while the shivering ebbs away. A head settles on his shoulder and curls tickle his cheek. Although he'd never confess it, it almost makes him a bit emotional. They stay like this until it stops feeling strange. Mycroft loses time, his aunt and uncle will probably arrive soon, but this somehow feels important. So he just stays put and waits.

A big sigh and then a little voice speaks into the dark.

“Hanky Myk? I need to blow nose.”

Mycroft wants to reply; exclaim that she speaks and ask her a bombardment of questions. He can’t do that, if he misses this vital opportunity she might retreat back into herself, and all his hard work will have been wasted. Instead he offers out the handkerchief and feels more than sees the pinchy little toddler fingers take it from his grasp. She blows her nose but doesn’t hand the lent item back. He’ll have to check the cupboard for it when they get out.

There is a little stretch of silence and then humming of ‘Au clair de la lune’ by his little cousin. Mycroft feels his eyes moisten at the sound and is glad they are still in the dark. Then he hears Grace speak to Gil-bear.

“I like singing Gil-bear.” A pause. “Oh you like singing too. Myk did okay singing. Would you like to get out of the cupboard now? Oh you do? Okay… Myk? Gil-bear thinks we should get out now.”

Mycroft rolls his eyes at the exchange but says nothing. Finally.

"Oh that’s an excellent idea, Grace and Gil-bear. Shall we get out? I’ll open the door first so we can get used to the light. And then maybe I can help you with putting on new clothes, perhaps one of the lovely dresses Auntie Violet got for you?”

Mycroft cracks open the door and the light of the room shows up Grace’s tear stained face (he’ll try and run a flannel over her so she looks a little better before presenting her back downstairs) and where she has discarded the used hankie.

He notes her face has broken into a scowl, but he soon has the reason made plain.

"Not stupid dress, Myk. I want the bee trousers. They pretty." 

“Bees?” Mycroft repeats, wondering if he’s maybe misheard, improbable, or more likely Grace means something else and is confused, she is only two after all. Grace however, blinks at him affronted.

“You not know bees, Myk?! Black and yellow and fluffy and buzz…and…” Her little face is bright and animated in the sunlight breaking through the net curtains into the room, and Mycroft is stunned at the change in the child who had been so sullen and silent apart from screaming fits until now. “... and honey! Bees make honey, and it’s so yummy, Myk.”

“I _know_ what a bee is Gracie, but thank you for that most informative lecture.” And the information about honey which is useful for getting you fed, he thinks. “I just didn’t know you had trousers with bees… apparently.”

Mycroft doesn't exactly know which ones are the bee trousers, but he's sure now that Grace will show him. She sounds very determined and he wouldn't dare to offer any other item of clothing right now. If bee trousers will get Grace out of the cupboard, then bee trousers it will be.

“Come on let’s go and get you those bee trousers. After you.”

Mycroft lets Grace lead, making sure she doesn’t fall over her blanket. She seems taller somehow, more sure of herself.

She stops dead when they walk past the still open bathroom door, and he sees her shoulders drop as she spots the mess.

“I’ll tidy Myk! I sorry.”

“Oh it’s fine, don’t worry. I’ll do it. You concentrate on getting dressed. Let’s go to your room, yes?”

He steers her on to the little room. And he opens the dresser drawer where he thinks the trousers are.

“No!” Grace says forcefully. “The bottom drawer! That’s where Auntie Violet put them. When we did shopping!” Grace’s tongue trips over a whole host of the letters though and the sentence comes out more like “Thath where Auntie Thioleth puth them. When we did thopping!”

“Oh. They’re dungarees, Grace! That’s where Mummy keeps your dungarees.” He’s almost certain that his mother will be upset that Grace is in dungarees, but there’s nothing for it. He cannot disappoint the toddler now, not when they are at the start of their alliance. He finds the prized item dark blue dungarees with bees embroidered onto the pocket and gives them to Grace, whose little face lights up. No matter what disapproval the outfit might garner from his mother and aunt he is happy to see his cousin smiling again. He lets Grace pick out a top to go with it and she chooses a tangerine coloured stretchy t shirt, not a bad colour to compliment the blue. She’s not too bad at this… and he takes down a little white crochet cotton cardigan from the hanging rail to smarten it up.

“That’ll do Grace. Get dressed…” There is something he is sure he has forgotten… “Oh. Knickers! You must wear knickers.”

“Why? I don’t like them!” Grace pouts.

“Grace Sherlock-Scott put your underwear on!”

“Socks Myk?” she lisps. Thockth. Mycroft has to turn away so Grace can’t see him grinning into his own hand. He takes a moment to compose himself.

“Yes, socks too.” He emphasizes the s. “Just find a white pair.” Mummy keeps Grace’s socks folded in a little wicker basket on the low table next to the dresser.

Once he is certain she is nearly dressed he quickly goes and tidys the bathroom, and then meets Grace back on the landing to clean her face, throwing the flannel into the now full laundry basket.

Grace has even put socks on Gil-bear, which Mycroft is sure wasn’t the plan but he doesn’t want to argue.

“Well done, Grace. Mummy will be pleased.”

He can only hope Grace’s good mood lasts…

“Shall we go out in the garden Grace?" 

"Oh yeth, Myk! Can we go thee beeth!" Gracie's little face beams. How can Mycroft say no?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This weeks title is a psychology pun. If you got the reference (to Bowlby and his concept of "cupboard love") then you win... nothing. We have no prizes but we're really glad you're as much of a nerd as littleweedwrites who thinks up these things.
> 
> Thanks for sticking with us and thank you for your comments so far. Love knowing what you think about the story.


	4. Misguided Beliefs

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Violet's sister arrived for her visit. Can Lillian be won over or is Violet fighting a losing battle with Grace?

Violet opens the front door and sees her sister getting out of the car, slowly and with some difficulty. Her condition has worsened since the last time they saw each other. But Violet knows better than to offer help. Lillian wouldn't appreciate that as she despises being mollycoddled. She has always been the tougher one of the two of them. So Violet just waits. 

She had been in the kitchen seeing to the roast and preparing the last bits for dinner when she’d heard the tires of a car crunching on the gravel drive which runs in front of the house. Towelling her hands on her apron she had rushed welcome their guests like a proper hostess should do. In her mind she quickly runs over all preparations she has done to check once again if she has remembered everything. She can’t come up with anything forgotten but is a bit restless anyway. It is always the same when they have visitors. She's not entirely sure herself why it bothers her so much, but she's always anxious when people stay over at her house. She wants it to be perfect, she wants people to like her home, which feels somehow equal to liking her. She knows she can be a reclusive person, that she was always better at academia than socialising. And letting people into her home always feels like letting people take a look into her soul. She's not comfortable with it at all; not even with her own sister.

She is only glad that Mycroft is looking after Grace.  He seems fascinated in her, as far as fascination in other people goes for her eldest. She stops herself short. Her eldest? In her mind she already seems to have adopted the little girl. However, Mycroft doesn't seem to mind. If she's honest, he gets along with Grace much better than she does herself. She's torn between relief and remorse. She should be doing more but her great-niece already causes her so much trouble and worry. She really is quite a handful and faces problems they never had with Mycroft. But then, Mycroft had always been an easygoing straightforward child if incredibly precocious. He’d slept through from four weeks and had been babbling whole actual words at sixth months and simple sentences at a year, her only concern had been that he hadn’t walked until he was eighteen months, but the doctor had put that down to laziness, and lack of interest in much physical activity, a trait her son still exhibits to this day. 

On one hand Violet is glad that Gracie has taken such a liking to Mycroft, it gives her a bit more room to breathe to try and work through her feelings about what’s happened to them as a family, first Bill and now this whole sorry business with Deme; but on the other hand she feels guilty burdening him with what should actually be her task. She’s the one who Demeter had confided in and chosen to care for Grace if anything did happen to her. She feels maybe like she’s doing a disservice to her little charge’s mother somehow. She shakes herself down. She can’t get caught up in this right now; she forces her face into a smile.

Arthur, Violet's brother-in-law, who had held the door for Lillian now opens the boot of their Range Rover and out comes their very enthusiastic wiggly tailed dog, a beautiful glossy coated red setter, their loyal companion for several years now. Violet still can’t understand why her sister had willingly burdened herself with a pet after having had four children to care for. Admittedly the dog only came after the last of her offspring were out of the house, but still - shouldn’t that have been the moment to enjoy the quiet, the perks of being unbound? Lillian claims that the dog keeps her busy. Being only four years old he still needs a lot of physical activity though and it’s getting harder the more Lillian’s condition progresses.

He already scampers around Violet's legs, seeking attention, probably smelling the cooking smells clinging to her clothes, when her sister comes to greet her. They make their way inside, Hugh is ready to take their cases up to the guest room for them so that Lillian can be saved from the bother of the stairs after having been cramped into the car. Violet takes them into the lounge and asks them if they’d like any refreshments. Apparently tea is in order so Violet makes her way through to the kitchen, where she, in a fit of preparedness and knowing her sister well, has everything laid out on a tray already; it’s just a matter of filling the teapot.

At that moment Mycroft appears at the backdoor, coming in from spending time in the garden, closely followed by Grace as expected. What is unexpected is the almost cheerful expression on Grace's face and the gleaming in her eyes when she looks up at Mycroft. Violet spots the little dungarees Mycroft has managed to put on Grace, however he’d managed that without her throwing a tantrum. She wonders that Mycroft even knew they existed, let alone where to find them. They'd only bought them just recently and she had put them under the stack in the bottom drawer. Although they are cute on Grace with the little bees on her chest and the smart tangerine t-shirt and cardigan, which once had been white but is now smeared with grass stains, it is not what Violet had chosen and laid out for her to wear for the visit of her sister, but of course Grace had wet herself and then Violet had allowed Mycroft to change her. The spare change in the cupboard would have been the little flowery blouse and camel coloured trouser set, eminently more suitable. Violet frowns wondering whatever possessed Mycroft to dress Grace so inappropriately. He, however, seems intent to ignore her pointed looks, which she knows he understands the meaning of, and pulls Grace closer to him placing hands on her shoulders protectively. Violet encourages the children to go ahead of her to greet their relatives whilst she carefully carries the tray.

The happy look on Grace's face visibly sobers as Mycroft greets his aunt and uncle, exchanging some formal words accepting a polite peck on the cheek from his aunt and shaking his uncle's hand. Mycroft has never been very close to them, he has always been on his own, no connection to his cousins as they were all much older. He appreciates the practical streak of his aunt, that much is obvious, but both of them aren’t prone to emotional outbursts. 

Grace stays close to Mycroft, wriggling out of his grasp and sneaking slightly behind his legs, but there is recognition in her eyes. Of course, it’s her grandmother after all, but Violet wonders how close they really are. After Bill’s death it had always been Violet who Demeter had called. She had never had a profound emotional connection to her mother-in-law. They were too different in character to properly understand each other. Lillian disliked Deme's flamboyance and mood-swings. Thought they were childish and exaggerated. She could never really muster honest empathy. With everything that had happened after Bill died, Lillian was more than a little angered. Even now she has trouble letting it go. She's not a very forgiving woman. Violet has always been slightly anxious to displease her older sister, still is. Not that Lillian is exactly resentful, but she does not hold back to expressing her opinion and judgement. And her opinions are mostly fairly strong. 

Violet wonders how much Lillian had really witnessed of Demeter's problems? Had she really cared for her daughter-in-law after Billy had died? Violet has to give her credit that she had called in social services. After a while it had been apparent that Demeter would need help. Professional help. Although, that much had been obvious. Does Lillian know about the nightly calls though? About Demeter’s inner conflicts, her struggles, how torn she had been? How much had Lillian really cared for Grace, too? Obviously Lillian loves the little girl, she is in no way indifferent or insensible to her little granddaughter. But now that Violet knows Grace a little better, she doubts that love alone is enough for this little enigma of a child. At least perhaps not hers, Violet’s, love. She still doesn't always feel like she has a foot on the ground with Grace; she is more often than not absolutely out of her depth than not.

Hugh and she have decided to seek professional assistance, to help Grace to get over her anxiousness and wariness at any rate. Or rather, to help them understand Grace and her behaviour that they suspect to be connected to the trauma she has gone through. So far, they aren't making a lot of progress. Their initial appointment with a therapist last week had hinted that there might be more to her unusual conduct than initially presumed. Possibly they will have to consult a specialist in child psychology. Grace is remarkably unpredictable.

Such as now. With trickiness Lillian has persuaded her into a hug, but it is obvious that the little girl doesn't want to participate. She lets herself be hugged and something inside Violet feels uneasy witnessing it. Soon, Grace starts to wriggle to get herself free. She doesn't like physical contact, that much is clear to Violet after even their short time together. Also, Grace doesn't like to feel caged in. She's a free spirit in all senses of the word. One moment she seems to tolerate the attention in stoic calm, the next moment she gets antsy. It doesn't help that the dog comes barging in the room, barking, jumping, wiggling his tail. Gracie flinches at the sudden movement, then freezes eyes wide. Exactly what Violet has been afraid of. She tries to get Mycroft's attention, silently speaking.

"Mycroft, can you…," when she suddenly startles when she hears a little voice. 

"Myk, the dog. Look, he coming over." Grace whispers, voice trembling a bit. Grace little fists are clenched in the fabric of Mycroft's trousers. Mycroft crouches down to her as if nothing unusual has happened. 

"It's okay, Grace. I know, he's a big dog, it's no shame to be afraid of him."

"No." Grace says, looking over her shoulder. That moment the dog nudges his wet nose against Grace's ear and she winces.

"Beau! Come here!" Lillian calls resolutely after the dog, who keeps wriggling excitedly around the two children. 

Grace frowns deeply, looks first at the dog then at Lillian and says a bit louder, "No!" 

Violet wrings her hands and searches the eyes of her husband, pleading for help. She knew it wouldn't be a good idea to bring the dog. Her sister had insisted though that Beau was not unknown to Grace. However, Violet is certain they've never interacted much considering Lillian and Arthur's home is so spacious that they barely have to stay in the same room. Also, Lillian had never taken the dog to London. Maybe Grace doesn't even remember the dog, who knows.

"Beau, really. Here! Now!" Lillian scolds and rushes over to where the dog is happily sniffing Grace's curls. "What’s gotten into you today?" She jerks at his collar and the dog yelps a little. 

"No!" Grace forcefully expresses and gets restless where Mycroft had laid his arms around her in protection. 

"I'll call Claudine to take care of Grace for a moment." Hugh announces and steps out of the room for a moment only to come back with the au pair in his wake. She takes Grace's hand to pull her along, but Violet can see that Grace is already too agitated to follow orders. 

Violet tries to interfere by telling Claudine to be a bit more gentle with Grace, but that only makes matters worse when too many things seem to happen at the same time. Lillian hands the dog over to Arthur, who then says to Hugh, "I better take this one outside for a minute! Maybe he better not get near the little girl." The same moment Lillian calls from behind Violet's back, addressing Claudine, "And get her changed while you're at it. Those clothes have seen better days." Over the ear deafening wailing that follows this commotion, Violet hears her sister mutter to herself, "A white cardigan to play in the garden, not the wisest of choices…" and Claudine trying to coax Grace to go upstairs to change and be safe from the dog, "Oh little Miss Gracie, no need to make fuss. Is only a dog. You don't like dogs? Come, we make you look nice. A young lady always loves nice clean clothes, yes?" all the while Grace keeps shouting, "No! No, nonononono!" 

Just before Violet closes her eyes to take a deep steadying breath to compose herself, she sees how Mycroft turns to go to the next room to get away from the tumult and expresses his dislike with an epic eye-roll. For a moment she wonders which of all this he dislikes in particular, probably everything in general as always, but her mind is already too busy trying to sort this mess for her to also worry about Mycroft. He will manage as he always does.

After that, dinner is a disaster.

Claudine didn’t succeed in getting Grace out of the bee dungarees, but at least the child is calm again and the soiled shirt and cardigan have been replaced. 

However, as usual, Grace doesn't eat. The only things she's interested in are the crunchy edges of the roast potatoes, which she nibbles off only to dump the insides back on the plate, and the peas she's picking meticulously out of the mixed vegetable on the side. Half of it she puts in her mouth with pinchy fingers, the other half lands in Gil-bear’s fur, squished, as Grace feeds him as well. Violet already dreads the moment the plush toy has to be taken for a proper cleaning in the washing machine. Grace will be devastated. Her emotional reactions are always to the extreme and there was no way to influence them. It is nerve wracking and considering Violet's nerves are on edge anyway, still grieving for both Bill and Demeter and with no small amount of guilt, she feels drained. She often gives up correcting Grace, just lets her have her way, out of sheer exhaustion. She knows that that is pedagogically adverse, but in the end she herself is only human, too. Even though she knows it is inappropriate and childish, Violet often feels personally affronted by Grace's temperamental outbursts. Each time she loses her nerve with Grace it haunts her; the little girl has gone through enough bad experiences, and Violet doesn’t want to add to them. It is a vicious circle they are in, which Violet is very aware of, but she is at a loss how to break it. She's only grateful for the calm and composed manner of her oldest child. There she goes again, Grace's adoption isn't even settled and yet her subconscious mind just accepts it as fact. She shouldn’t chastise herself over it though. All it proves is her commitment to Grace after all, and she knows that’s unquestionable. Mycroft approaches Grace with logic and never seems to be affected on an emotional level. Such as now, seated next to Grace, he tries to convince her to eat by talking and discussing with Grace as if she were his own age.

Violet doesn't have to look at her sister to see the disapproval in her eyes. Lillian doesn't comment. But the tension is obvious. Only at that moment Grace starts to shriek because there are no more peas and Mycroft has told her that she will get new peas only after she’s also eaten some of the roast. Lillian's patience seems to wear thin.

"Grace, that's enough," she says, fiercely, and glares at Grace, "you'll eat your dinner now like a good girl, no discussion!" And adds, turning her head to Violet, "Really Violet, if you tolerate such behaviour  _ now  _ you'll regret it later. If she’d been one of mine, she'd sit there until she ate her food. And if it took hours, I wouldn't care, she'd give in eventually." 

Violet really doubts that. Even more, she knows that would not be the way it would happen with Grace. She has a strong suspicion that Grace doesn't care about the expectations of others, let alone allow herself to be forced into doing something she doesn't want. As if to prove her right, the reaction to the scolding is exactly what Violet has been afraid of. Unwelcome but expected… Grace throws a tantrum and grabs a handful of the unwanted meat and slings it on the ground. Afterwards she wipes her hand on her clothes, expertly avoiding the little bees. 

To make it all worse, the dog, who has been ordered to stay in a corner far from the table to avoid further encounters, senses his chance to get a bite too, and springs excitedly to his feet to scurry over to Grace's chair. Grace watches him with eyes wide like saucers, squeaks when he nears her and starts to wriggle and scramble in her chair; so much that Violet is worried she might tumble over. Before Violet can ask, Mycroft grabs Grace under her arms, tilts her out of her chair and speaks soothingly to her.

"Don't you worry Gracie, he won't do you any harm. Come on, we'll go somewhere else, yes?" 

By then, Grace has worked herself in a state, screaming and kicking with arms and legs flying, and it’s a wonder nothing gets broken and no one is hurt. Mycroft takes her into the sunroom, maybe to draw at the table again, and after a while the wailing abates to sobbing until they only hear a little sniveling now and then. 

After dinner is finished Violet goes to check on the children. They’ve settled back in the living room by the window, and she has to smile when she spots Mycroft sitting in his favourite chair reading the daily papers he hasn't yet had the time to study today. And on the footstool next to him sits Grace trying to mirror him, very earnestly turning pages over in a storybook about pirates, her face furrowed in concentration as if she is considering the book carefully. 

Mind at ease, she leaves the two of them alone, glad that the situation has calmed down again. 

The grown ups entertain themselves with a gentle stroll through the nature around the house. Claudine watching the children so that Violet, Hugh and their visitors can have some time and space to catch up uninterrupted. The rest of the day goes by quietly. Violet relaxes a bit, especially when Lillian compliments her on the new installed terrace and her planting arrangements and hanging baskets. She'd never admit to her sister that they've hired a gardener who takes care of all of that. A lovely and quiet elderly man, who never seems to be bothered by any request. Let her sister think that Violet is actually good at something acceptable for once. Violet will surely not correct her.

Showing that she can be a good… great-aunt? Sounds awful, she'd rather say mother, but that can wait… Violet puts Grace to bed, which goes surprisingly well. She's probably exhausted from the eventful day, too. Tonight, she requests only two stories to be read by silently pointing at her storybooks. Violet is disappointed that she apparently still can't get close enough to Grace that she will talk to her. She now does with Mycroft, at least. But these are the little victories - a quiet evening, a hesitant cuddle, sitting peacefully looking at books. She tries to be grateful. However, she hopes to make more progress in the near future. When she puts the books away and tucks Grace in, the little girl hums a vaguely familiar tune to herself. Violet listens for a moment and remembers the song. She sits again and softly sings along. Grace's eyes grow wide, but she never falters in her humming. When Violet gets up to turn off the light, says goodnight and quietly clicks the door shut after herself, she thinks she hears a very little "love you" from the direction of the bed. But when she peeks in again, Grace is squeezed into her blankets and covers and has her eyes closed, no hint of interaction. The relief and happiness Violet feels though is a welcome contrast to the tension of the rest of the day. These quiet and content moments with Grace leave her hopeful and confident that they will manage eventually. She loves the little girl fiercely despite all the stress they're going through. 

Later that evening the women settle on the veranda on the back of the house. Both sipping a glass of red wine, the buzz of the day finally calmed down a bit in Violet's mind.

Their husbands have taken shelter in the living room, pretending to play a game of chess but actually enjoying one of Hugh's better whiskeys and talking about the latest results of their favourite cricket clubs.

"So, you're serious then about adopting Grace?" Lillian asks out of the blue.

Violet swallows down her sip of wine. It burns a bit in her throat. "Yes, I thought I've made that clear. Why are you asking?"

"Oh, I just think, it's quite the task to bring up a child like her."

"And you think I'm not capable of accomplishing that?"

"I never said so." Lillian looks out into the garden and takes another sip of her own wine.

"It sounds like it." Violet hates that her pouting little sister voice sneaks in. Predictably, Lillian turns her head and smirks at her. 

"Vi," she says, still looking at her. "It's not meant as critique or accusation, you know just as well as I do, that Grace never has been a normal child."

This makes Violet's hackles rise. "The definition of what is 'normal' is in the eye of the beholder." she says, sitting up a bit straighter.

"Oh come on, you know what I mean."

"No, what do you mean?" Violet looks daringly at her sister.

"Nothing whatsoever," Lillian retreats. "All I wanted to express is that you have to be careful with her. You're too soft-hearted sometimes."

"Hm, and that is a bad thing?" 

"Vi, stop turning my words in my mouth," Lillian's big sister attitude shows. "Grace is a child that needs to be reigned in, I think. You have to be harder on her, she needs rules and boundaries. That's what I wanted to say. I did that with all of my four children and I'm quite confident in how they turned out. They all grew up into decent young people, after all."

"And how did you do that? How shall I go from here, do you think? She  _ is  _ exhausting at times, I’ll give you that. Do you have any tricks? Any advice?"

"I don't know, Vi. I've always just acted in that moment the way I thought was right. I don't remember much of a battle-plan. Maybe that's your problem… you're over-thinking too much. Maybe you just have to trust your instincts."

"That's what I'm trying, but according to you, I'm not doing it right." Violet sighs.

"You have to stop trying to always do the right thing. And to please others. That's really getting you nowhere. You're too keen on harmony." 

"Wonder why…" Violet mumbles, takes another sip of red, lets it linger in her mouth and leans her head back. 

"Sorry, what?" Lillian looks quizzically over at her.

"No, nothing." Violet clears her throat. "We'll just have to wait and see, I guess. I'll try my best."

"Oh, I'm sure you will!" Lillian smiles encouragingly at her. 

"Right." Violet smiles back and they let the topic go. They really do get along well, can talk about a lot, and have helped each other over the years. Violet has always looked up to her older sister and wanted to please her. But they are so vastly in temperament and character. They complement each other in some ways, but sometimes it's as if they speak different languages. Apparently, the issue of Grace is a case in point.

After that, they talk amicably about books and gardening, about how things are out at the vineyard in France Arthur and Lillian own. It’s a struggle now Bill can't take over the family business anymore. They’d let him do more and more and he really had been pretty much in charge of it since Grace had been about six months, his parents enjoying an early retirement of sorts. Now it’s left mostly in the hands of a distant cousin as none of their other children or even their older offspring have shown any interest in it at all, and Lillian can’t travel over there at the drop of a hat like she used to when she was younger. Her MS stops her doing so much that she used to take in her stride. It pains Violet to see her sister this dependent and vulnerable, but Lillian just soldiers through and doesn't let show how she really feels about it. 

After a while, the men join them on the terrace and they fall in easy chatter, sharing stories about past days, laughing about old and overused jokes, some silent and more serious words about Bill. They exchange memories, but thinking about his positive and joyful nature doesn't leave room for too much gloominess. They avoid talking about Demeter altogether; Violet for the sake of her own nerves and mood rather than anything else. She knows Lillian will end up voicing her opinions on the matter sooner or later, just right now Violet is aiming for the latter.

It gets late. Some more glasses of wine and whiskey later, they say their goodnights and make way to their respective bedrooms. While Hugh uses the bathroom, Violet goes to check on Grace as she does every night before going to bed. Carefully she opens her bedroom door and glances in. She can't make out the little body amongst the covers and plush toys, and turns on the light. When she looks closer and discovers that the bed is empty her stomach drops. She turns to call for Hugh; but then why would he know where Grace is when she doesn't? She tries to calm down, it’s probably that Grace didn't want to sleep alone after such an eventful and, to her at least, frightening day. Violet decides to check the most likely place the little one may be, with her brother… cousin! Even though she always tries not to intrude on Mycroft's personal space more than necessary these days, as being told off by her son more than once for just stepping into his room without knocking, she avoids it as much as possible. 

So she quietly opens his bedroom door not wanting to rouse them. And peering into the gloom is sure she sees the shape of Grace next to him in bed. Of course, Mycroft wakes and sits up. 

"Mother? Is there anything the matter?" 

Violet smiles fondly at the boy for being so formal while rubbing his eyes and his hair spiking up from sleep. 

"I just wanted to see if Grace is with you. She is, isn’t she?" She asks him quietly. That seems to wake him.

"No. Why?"

Surely the extra shape in the bed is Grace. What does Mycroft mean? "Because she's not in her bed and I thought…" She starts. 

Mycroft is out of bed in an instant. Tumbling the spare pillow Violet thought was the toddler onto the floor. She feels sick, the wine now seeming like the worst choice of evening drink.

"We have to look for her. Mummy, ask Claudine; there’s somewhere I have to check first."

That seems a little odd to Violet and she’s prepared to let it go, but frowns when Mycroft purposefully marches across the hall to knock on the guest room door. Why on earth does he have to wake her sister? Why does Mycroft think Grace would be in there? She realises she can’t worry about it and hurries downstairs to go find Claudine. 

When she hears voices and footsteps of people coming out onto the landing, she knows that Mycroft hasn't found her either. Now she really starts to be frightened. Where can Grace be? She had been in her bed settled peacefully when Violet had left her and they hadn't heard or seen a thing since then. 

Violet knocks on the door of the study where, usually after everyone else has gone to bed, Claudine often takes advantage of the quiet to do her homework for her English classes. She hasn't heard or seen anything either, and willingly leaves her work to join the rest of them roaming the house looking for Grace. The men even go outside to search the back garden, Mycroft forging ahead, knowing places where she might have gone to from their outdoor explorations. They're calling Grace’s name although Violet doesn't really expect an answer. Although,  maybe if it is Mycroft…

Running out of ideas, Violet goes into the hall to grab her coat and shoes to see if Grace has left through the front door, which is highly unlikely considering it is locked. But being worried and knowing Gracie, it is worth a try. 

The moment Violet reaches to pick up her shoes she halts. Then sighs relieved and calls out for the others who hurry to her side. 

She has found Grace. In her nighty, Gil-bear tightly crushed in her arms, curled up and sleeping next to Beau in the dog basket.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh THANKYOU for sticking with us!


	5. False Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Mycroft finds himself pulled along on the rollercoaster of Grace's moods. As hard as he tries to make sense of her behaviour, he's unable to predict the unexpected heights to which they reach; nor the speed of descent.

Mycroft is worried. Grace had seemed more settled in the time they’d spent in the garden after their cupboard escapade earlier, but maybe he’d severely misjudged. She obviously has some sort of problem with his aunt’s dog. And she’d not endeared herself to his aunt, her grandmother, much either. First by shouting at her and then getting upset during dinner. She’d been so distraught when he’d taken her from the dinner table, but he’d brought her back round, he’d hoped. He’d let her hide under the sunroom table for a while before talking to her. She’d just scrambled right with her back against the wall sobbing piteously and whispering to herself, but he couldn’t quite hear what it was she was saying. After she was calmer, he’d persuaded her to draw and then he’d led her to the sitting room and read to her until she plucked a book off the shelf and had opened it. She stared at it very intently whilst shushing his own efforts at entertainment, so he had grabbed the novel he was currently engrossed in and read that silently to himself instead. She’d moved so much with her whims which licked by and faded like clouds on a summer's day that he had found himself quite turned around by her again.  


Her unpredictability in that way is his greatest concern, paired with her cleverness. Ever since she’d gotten out of her room on that first morning he’d been wondering if she’d spring another escape act, but it had sort of slunk to the back of his mind when she hadn’t done much like it again. Now he’s aware she could be anywhere. There’s a brook a field over if she managed to breach the back gate… That certainly doesn’t bear thinking about. Daddy had checked the gates first though and they’re all secure, so she must be here somewhere!

Mummy had been so convinced she had been in with him, but Grace had only done that twice before. It was hardly a habit. And  _ he’d _ been so sure she would have snuck to the cupboard… Except of course she wasn’t going to walk into the lion’s den with Aunt Lillian. He sweeps his torch down a little patch that leads to a sickeningly whimsical statue of a fairy his mother loves. Grace probably isn’t there. She’d wrinkled her nose at it earlier declaring it had “scary eyes”.

There’s a shout from the back door. It’s Claudine. 

“Mrs. Holmes found her. She is with the dog.”

The dog?! But she seemed to hate it earlier. Yet another thing he seems to have misjudged. When will Grace’s behaviour start making logical sense? 

He practically runs back inside, which is most unlike him. His father and uncle follow on and he sees that everyone inside is talking in hushed voices in the kitchen clustered around the door open to the hallway. This he has to see.  


His mother and aunt are blocking the way deep in hushed discussion.  


“Well I did tell you darling Beau wouldn’t hurt her!”

“She will be alright snuggled up like that won’t she? Should I wake her?”

“We had dogs when my children were little, remember, and more than once I found one or more of them passed out on the sofa with the dog. Especially Daisy. Never did them any harm. You  _ have  _ to stop worrying Vi. Come on. I’ll make everyone a cocoa so we can settle back down.”

They finally move away from the door and Mycroft can see. Grace has curled herself up in the dog basket and Beau is asleep with his shoulders and head in the basket with her and the rest of himself poking out of the step into the front. He obviously watched her and made sure she was safe before settling to his own sleep. 

Again, Mycroft is disturbed by the strength of feeling he has for his little cousin. A wave of protectiveness and love washes over him, and it’s all he can do to school himself not to well up. Tears wouldn’t help matters though. Also he’s less likely to get a cocoa if he makes a fuss, and he knows his aunt makes excellent cocoa, just the right amount of sugar not to overpower the chocolate and she does something he can only imagine is witchcraft with a whisk to make it frothy.

Soon they are all settled around the kitchen table chatting inconsequentialities in low voices so as not to wake the slumbering toddler and her canine companion and drinking Aunt Lillian’s cocoa which is as delicious as Mycroft recalled. Soon the mugs are nearly drained.  


“I think I’ll stay down here Hugh, what if Grace wakes up and doesn’t remember where she is.”

Mycroft flicks his eyes over to his aunt and catches her rolling her eyes spectacularly but saying nothing. She looks tired and probably just wants to go back to bed, after all she’s not a well woman.  


“If it will put your mind at rest, dear, then who am I to argue? I think I’m done with this cocoa and my pyjamas are calling. Goodnight all” 

Mycroft’s father gives his wife a gentle kiss on the cheek and bids Mycroft a goodnight with a shoulder squeeze before retiring upstairs.  


Claudine is next to shuffle to bed, and then Aunt Lillian and Uncle Arthur, just leaving Mycroft and his mother.  


“Right, young man. Off to bed with you too.”

“Oh, but I thought you might want some company.”

“Goodness no. I have plenty of magazines to be reading, I just swapped a stack with Helen from the WI. Although if you could go and grab me a sheet and a blanket from the airing cupboard so I don’t have to leave her that would be ideal.”

“But…” Mycroft begins.  


“No, that’s enough. Off you go, blanket sheet back to me and then bed! I’m still your mother even though for some reason you think you’re an adult even though you’re barely in double figures.”

Realising it’s not use arguing Mycroft does as his mother suggests, although whilst she makes up the sofa for the night he lingers in the hallways to just check Grace isn’t too hot and then when his mother catches him and tuts heads to bed.

When the morning rolls around Mycroft wakes to peals of pixie-like laughter from downstairs. Surely that isn’t Gracie? What on earth has delighted her so much? Pulling on his dressing gown he goes to investigate.  


Grace, dressed already in a purple corduroy romper, is crawling around under the dining table with all the chairs pulled out and Beau is keeping track of her from the perimeter and every time she tries to get out the dog comes directly in front of her and nose nudges her back under the table. And then the two-year-old breaks into a fit of giggles.  


It’s quite the most wonderful sound he’s sure he’s ever heard, the sheer joy in it so plain.  


He must get a little lost in just watching because before he knows it his mother is behind him, squeezing his shoulders.  


“Look at her, Myk. I didn’t think she actually knew how to laugh.” Despite a night obviously spent half awake watching her little niece sleep, his mother looks happier and more relaxed than he’s seen her in a while.  


“Yes, well she certainly looks as if she’s having fun.” Mycroft agrees.  


Violet turns back into the kitchen so Mycroft follows   


“Do we have breakfast plans, Mummy?”

“I thought, seeing as the weather has stayed fair, we could eat out on the patio this morning. Daddy’s made sure there’s enough furniture out, and Claudine and I are setting the tables and sorting the preserves and toast, and then Claudine said she’d do everyone eggs to their liking, Lillian and Arthur brought some with them from their hens.”

“Honey.” Says Mycroft simply.  


“I beg your pardon. That’s not some weird fancy you’ve gotten out of the lifestyle inserts in the paper is it? Eggs with honey?”

“No! Although I think it would probably work, Canadians poach them in maple syrup... Honey for the toast. Grace likes honey. She mentioned it yesterday when she was going on about those bee dungarees.”

“Oh yes. The dungarees…” The way his mother loads the word with about three layers of meaning is telling. “Did she really tell you all that about wanting to wear them? She’s almost never spoken to me, Claudine, or your Father. Even with Demeter… I- I used to think she was being fanciful about how much conversation Grace had with her. I think yesterday was as many words as I’d ever heard her put in a sentence. And honey’s an excellent idea. I was going to put some out anyway. She may actually eat something other than dry cereal for breakfast!”

Assured now that Grace is fine and that he’s done all he can to ensure she eats breakfast; Mycroft returns upstairs to get washed and dressed for the day. As he leaves his room, he meets his aunt on the landing, she is looking as puzzled as he did at the sounds of joyful playing from downstairs.  


“Good Morning, Aunt Lillian.”

“Morning, Mycroft. Is that my granddaughter sounding so cheerful?”

“Yes. She’s playing with Beau in the dining room.”

“Ah. I see.”

Mycroft had expected his aunt to be happier about this somehow, like his mother is, but as usual Lillian doesn’t give anything away. If he’s honest it’s a trait he admires in his aunt, but sometimes even he thinks she takes the concept of a stiff upper lip too far.  


He lets his aunt ahead of him on the stairs which means by the time they get down to the bottom Grace and Beau have moved on from their dining room games and the dog is having his own breakfast in the sunroom. Claudine is in the kitchen getting everything ready for the eggs, and Mummy has Grace sitting sideways on a kitchen chair, trying again to tame her hair. She finally manages to put a clip in the front so it’s away from Grace’s eyes, but the rest is still left loose as Grace keeps moving her head away.  


“Done!” Says Grace as she gets off the chair. “Going to find Dog!”

“Ah… not so fast.” Mycroft anticipating the toddler’s movements sweeps in front of her. “He’s eating his breakfast and you need yours, and for that we’d best get out of the way so Claudine and Mummy can finish the toast and eggs. I’ll have poached please. Did you want-” He begins.  


“Yuck! I hate eggs! Horrid.” Grace says shaking her head vigorously enough that some of her newly swept back hair escapes the grip of the clip. He wonders why his mother bothers.  


“Very well. Would you like some milk to drink whilst you wait for your toast?”

“There’s some on the table already for her Myk.” His mother interjects. “Now please do leave. I don’t want her here whilst Claudine is frying eggs...”

Mycroft manages to cajole Grace to the table where his aunt and uncle are sitting waiting and talking to each other in low voices he just can’t catch over the noises of the garden. It’s rude, but he can’t say anything.  


“Good Morning, Grace.” His aunt says loudly. “You did give us all a terrible fright last night young lady. That was very naughty! You’re lucky Beau is the generous sort, for him to share his basket.”

Grace does a sort of little scan around whilst getting up onto a chair, as if looking for the source of the greeting and admonishment while absolutely not glancing at her grandmother once. Then she lays her cheek on the table and stares cross eyed at her milk.  


There is an awkward silence then:

“Myk? Does dogs eat eggs?” Grace lisps, her tongue finding her top lip.  


“Er. I have no idea Grace.”

“Yes.” Aunt Lillian pipes up. “Beau likes them scrambled, Grace. They help keep his coat shiny.”

“Oh.” She appears to consider this very carefully for the moment, a wrinkle appearing between her eyebrows. “Maybe I try eggs like the dog, Myk?”

“His name is Beau, Grace dear.” Lilian says, pointedly.  


“He still dog. I tell Auntie Vi.”

Before Mycroft can stop her, she is down off her chair, swiping her milk and toddling to the open kitchen door. 

“Eggs, scrambled, Auntie Vi! Me and dog!” She shouts, then she runs to the sunroom, stretches to open the door, and lets the dog out. He immediately runs over to Lillian, lays down, and Grace goes and sits next to him on the floor. She drinks her milk as if this is perfectly regular behaviour, runs her little hands over his fur and chatters to him in gibberish.  


“Mycroft?” Mummy appears behind him. “Did Grace just ask me for eggs?!”

“Apparently, they’re for Beau too…” Mycroft is careful to use the dog’s name to not risk antagonising his aunt any further.  


“Well I… Lillian?” Aunt Lillian nods. “Alright. I suppose we’re scrambling some more eggs now. Good job you brought enough…”

“27 eggs.” Says Grace, suddenly.  


“She...? You don’t mean you want 27 eggs.” Grace shakes her head. “Do you mean Grand’Mere brought 27 eggs with her, ma petite?” She turns to her sister. “Did you?”

“Yes, there were three spaces on the tray, Vi. You’re the maths genius!”

“Yes I… but apparently so is Grace. Today is just getting stranger…” Is all Mummy says before she goes back into the kitchen.

Eventually Grace is enticed back to the table by Mycroft when he covers a piece of toast in honey for her, but Beau follows her back to her seat and settles at her feet.  


Mycroft’s father finally comes out to join them as the eggs start appearing from the kitchen. He’s obviously been taking important calls in the study and seems a little distracted. Mycroft really doesn’t understand people who can work before breakfast, especially on a weekend.  


“Toast Daddy?” Mycroft offers the loaded toast rack to his father.  


“Oh yes please, Mykie. There’s honey today, Violet is spoiling us.”

“S’mine! Yummy!” Grace says.  


Hugh looks momentarily shocked at being addressed, but quickly recovers. “Ah! I see. Well if it’s for you little one I’m not surprised Auntie Vi is treating us.”

Grace sort of pulls a little pleased face. Her relationship with his father is complicated, like with his mother she barely speaks to him but is much more ready to acknowledge his presence often than female company. Mummy has said Grace had been close to Bill before his death. Maybe she just recognises that his father fills the same space in their own family. Although he’s much less hands on as a parent, than Mycroft’s late cousin. Mycroft is as close to his father as he would like to be. When the elder Holmes isn’t working, he often uses his spare time to take Mycroft out for educational trips, sometimes even into London which is rather a treat.

Once Mummy and Claudine have made sure everyone has their eggs breakfast starts in earnest as is proper. The only one to have eaten anything so far is Grace and that was more of a bribe than anything else, and no one had really expected her to eat more than her toast.  


As well as the toast and a slew of condiments on the table, there’s fresh bread, fruit, and a few cheeses. To drink there’s the usual pot of tea, proper cafetiere coffee his aunt has supplied, fresh apple juice from a friend of Mummy’s at the WI and fresh orange Mummy must have squeezed this morning. Mycroft is in absolute heaven.  


And of course, the eggs. A little plate of scrambled is set in front of Grace, but she watches Beau start to eat his first, then digs her spoon into the pile and moves the scooped mush tentatively to her mouth, pops it in and closes it.  


Her brow furrows as she seems to consider it, her lips pursing up as if it’s a lemon slice she’s been given rather than egg and then she hops down off her seat and crouches to spit it into Beau’s dish, who doesn’t care and makes that piece of egg his next mouthful.  


“Grace! That’s absolutely vile!” Mummy says.  


“Told you eggs was yuck. Not wasted though.” She slurps down some milk to obviously wash away the taste and lets out a little burp.  


It’s all Mycroft can do not to laugh. All the adults at the table are agog with disgust, but Grace is undeterred and dumps the rest of her egg into grateful Beau’s bowl and then grabs a piece of toast from the rack closest to her and holds it out to Mycroft.  


“Honey Myk!”

However, she licks the honey off the toast before eating only half of it at most. Mycroft considers it a terrible waste of food, but it’s probably the most she’s ever eaten with them, so he shan’t make a fuss. Grace wiggles impatiently in her chair whilst everyone else makes conversation and is soon excused from the table as it’s obvious they can’t keep her there any longer. Of course, she charges inside as fast as her little legs allow her to, to appear a moment later all but stumbling back over the doorstep again, Gil-Bear clasped tightly in her arms. She strides over to where Beau is still munching lazily on his food. She pokes him in his side, but he doesn’t so much as flinch.  


“Come on. You done now? Hurry!”

When Beau doesn’t react, Grace just picks up his bowl and puts it on the breakfast table. Apparently, she doesn’t hear Mummy’s appalled yell, or more likely she doesn’t care, because she is already disappearing with the dog back into the living room. 

When Mummy asks him to, Mycroft, who had moved to the bench as everyone else was still eating and was perfectly happy reading the Sunday papers, goes after Grace 

and finds her sitting in Daddy’s favourite chair looking at the same book she had picked out the day before. Beau has his head settled on her lap and is happily enjoying being scratched behind his ear; Gil-Bear is held headlock under her other arm as she needs at least one hand to hold the book. Grace seems to mimic reading to both of them, as she babbles along while very studiously turning pages, her little face serious. 

Mycroft watches her from the door. He doesn’t want to disturb her; this is the perfect opportunity to gain valuable data. Considering he has no other duties today - apart from his usual studies, which will keep- he decides to keep an eye on Grace to take some notes and gain some new insights. Her behaviour has been most peculiar again.  


Reaching the last page, she slams the book shut and pulls Beau’s head up by his ears to look at her.  


“Don’t sleep!” she scolds him angrily. “You understand everything?”

She seems to automatically assume that he does, because she pins the book under her arm next to Gil-Bear and beckons the dog back with her to the garden. She chatters the whole time, of which Mycroft doesn’t understand one single word, and looks expectantly at the dog, who seems to realise he should follow along after her. Mycroft calls her back because she isn’t wearing any shoes, but she doesn’t pay him any attention.  


Muttering about the burdens of being a big brother he hurries to collect Grace’s wellies and put on his own shoes, but when he comes back outside, he has lost sight of her. 

Eventually he finds her hidden among a couple of bushes, leaves caught in her hair, romper stained with grass and dirt. Mycroft groans. Mummy will be absolutely delighted. And probably he will be held responsible for it. He has to find a way to convince Grace to follow his orders in the future, at least to some extent. 

She can’t be coaxed out of her hiding place, so Mycroft holds out her wellies for her.  


“Put them on, Grace. Mummy will not approve of you walking barefoot in the garden.”

“No, Myk. Pirates not have wellies.” Gracie pouts.  


Mycroft frowns. Pirates? Well, never mind. Quickly, he tries to come up with an idea how to get those shoes on her.  


“But you like them, Grace. They’re pretty.” He says. She does care somewhat about her clothes after all.  


“Pirates not care about pretty. Pirates not have wellies!” she repeats, annoyed as if Mycroft is too slow to follow her reasoning. So, she is arguing with him? Well then...  


“Of course, they do, Grace. It can be cold and very wet on a boat. They need wellies to not freeze their feet off. And when they want to bury their treasures they have to go deep into the jungle where there is a lot of mud and where a lot of poisonous snakes live.  _ Of course,  _ they wear wellies!” Mycroft states with as much seriousness as he can muster.  


Grace scrutinises him a bit suspiciously. 

“Really, Myk? You not lying?” she sounds a bit insecure now and Mycroft feels a bit guilty to fool her like this. But needs must.  


“Absolutely. I swear.”

“Okay.” Grace gives in reluctantly, takes the wellies and sits down to put them on clumsily. While being very concentrated on her task she says, “Redbeard need wellies too. He is pirate too.” 

“Who?” Mycroft has no idea who Grace is referring to.  


“The dog, Myk.”

“Oh, Beau!” Maybe Grace said Red Beau? He is a rather pretty copper colour Mycroft supposes and he does look rather red. "No, Grace. Beau is a dog. Dogs don’t wear wellies.”

“He is pirate!” she says stubbornly. After a while, her face lights up. “You want to be pirate too, Mykie?” She beams at him. But he really has no time for such childishness.  


“No, Grace. You have fun and don’t go too far away. I’ll keep an eye on you from the terrace.” He’ll have to take the books for his studies outside then. He sighs. The things one has to do for little siblings.  


“I’m big and I have Redbeard.” Grace complains, but Mycroft isn’t really listening anymore, already planning in which order to work through his school subjects.  


“No, you’re not and I will have to run after you. That’s the way it is. Don’t be reckless please. I have important things to do and I don’t want to have to explain to Mummy if something happens. So behave!” 

He catches Gracie sticking out her tongue behind his back out of the corner of his eye. He doesn’t comment, doing so would probably only encourage her. 

From time to time one of the adults comes out looking to make sure everything is in order, but most of the time he checks in on her himself. Sometimes he finds her “reading”, sometimes inspecting plants or insects but always in the company of the dog. They’re inseparable. After a while Gil-Bear finds his regular place with one of his legs sort of stuffed underneath Beau’s collar so he looks like he’s riding the dog. 

The same way the day goes by. The grownups are talking, having tea, talking again, and going for a walk after they make sure that Claudine and Mycroft will look after Grace. Mycroft wonders what warrants wasting so much time with talking; but then to his immense irritation his opinion isn’t asked nor wanted. Grace can’t be convinced to leave the garden. Apart from some emergency sprints to the toilet she doesn’t set foot in the house. She also refuses to join their meals with the result that Claudine brings her, to Lillian’s great disapproval, some sandwiches to eat in her shelter underneath the garden bench. Of course, she shares with her companions; one bite for her, one bite for the dog, one squeeze in the face for Gil-Bear. And she has never seemed more content.

Grace’s evening mood, which is usually pretty tetchy anyway, reaches a peak that day. She’s over exhausted from spending the whole day outside and probably hasn’t eaten enough, which has made her extra cranky. She noisily complains because she isn’t allowed to sleep downstairs next to Beau. When Mummy obviously fails to get the situation under control and is obviously irritated, Mycroft decides to intervene. He remembers his earlier reasoning about the wellies and intends to prove a point.  


“Grace, you can’t sleep with the dog, because in Beau’s basket there isn’t enough space for both of you.”

“But- But- But I sleep there in night!” Grace whines.  


“Yes, and Beau had to sleep on the floor. It’s not nice of you to take over his bed so he has none, is it?” He looks sternly at her to strengthen the effect of his argument. Grace seems to contemplate it.  


“Okay… then  _ I _ sleep on floor.” She sounds determined and almost rushes over to pick up her blanket and go downstairs before Mycroft can stop her.  


“No, you won’t. Sleeping on the floor is much too chilly. You will most likely catch a cold and then you won’t be able to play with the dog at all, because you would have to stay in bed all day and drink awful herbal infusions.” 

It has the desired effect as Grace crinkles her nose in disgust and shivers at the thought. She looks miserable though, having no counterargument. Mycroft would almost pity her if it weren’t for the logic of his reasoning. No need to pity someone if the facts speak for themselves. 

Sombrely, Grace scuffles over to her bed without saying another word and wraps herself in her duvet, Gil-Bear crushed in a tight embrace. When Mycroft reminds her to say her good nights to the adults, she fiercely shakes her head and creeps deeper into her covers. 

Later that night, Mycroft thinks to hear some soft noise coming from the stairway, but it’s over before he can be sure. When it reappears not much later, he peeks through the gap of his bedroom door and witnesses Grace sneaking up the stairs. The little girl has the decency to look at least a tiny bit guilty about being caught.  


“What are you doing, Gracie? There’s nothing for you to do out here. What if Mummy or Daddy had seen you?" He whispers. He can still hear the grownups laugh and talk downstairs. "You should be in your bed, young lady!”

“Okay.” Grace says sleepily and goes straight back to bed. Mycroft is left puzzled. He doesn’t know what to make of it. As so often with Grace he can’t necessarily pinpoint anything out of the ordinary, so he also goes back to his room to continue reading before sleep. 

The next morning it isn’t Grace who is found next to Beau, when Mycroft heads downstairs, but Gil-Bear. And a few moments later it's apparent that the first thing on Grace’s mind, before even dressing, is looking for Beau and Gil-Bear. Mycroft sneaks into the dining room when he hears her coming and peeps carefully around the door to see what happens. Grace is delighted when she finds them still huddled together in the dog basket. She picks up her plush toy and holds it with both outstretched arms in front of her.  


“You looked after my friend? Good. You a good bear. Well done.” With that she scrambles back upstairs to his mother who is calling, acting as if nothing has happened.  


Once she is dressed Grace rushes to be with her companion and they are inseparable. She is talking more than ever although mostly to the dog and throwing fewer tantrums. Mycroft is stunned about this change in behaviour as are the adults from what he gathers from their conversations.

Later that day she’s lying flat on her belly in the middle of the lawn, the dog lying motionless next to her. In contrast to yesterday she brought a blanket. The moment Mycroft realises which blanket it is he groans. Oh no, not mummy's crocheted one from the sofa. It is  _ white,  _ for God's sake. Well, it had been white; it isn't anymore. 

Mycroft approaches her, curious what she’s doing. He finds her with her nose almost squashing a clover flower to study the bee collecting nectar from it. She peers cross eyed at the bee while apparently explaining facts about the bee to the dog. He can hear her say “Look, they fluffy and have stripes” and “Bees have big family, they all live together”. She startles when Mycroft calls to warn her.  


“Grace, careful. A bee sting in your face would be most unpleasant and certainly not desirable. Don’t go too close.”

The bee flies off and Grace scowls at him.  


“Bee is my friend. And now she scared of you.” Grace says, angrily and rising, then stomps past him dragging the blanket after her to find a new place to play, Mummy is going to be so thrilled... The dog, naturally, follows, Gil-Bear’s legs dangling around his neck. As Grace apparently still has to vent her anger, Beau gets an earful, too. "And you stop lying on floor." she berates him. "You will get cold and have infusions." her tongue tumbles over the last word, which only spikes her annoyance. "We not play and then Gil-Bear is sad and is your fault!" The stern look she gives the dog, disconcertingly reminds Mycroft of himself. 

He rolls his eyes and returns to his studies, thinking on exactly how long it will be before his mother notices the missing throw and wondering why there is still anything white in the house considering his little cousin’s tendency towards mess and chaos.  


The only difficulty with Grace arises when Uncle Arthur insists he walks the dog after dinner, and Grace pouts when she realises this doesn’t involve her and shouts pushchair at Claudine until the young woman relents and offers to take Grace along. The adults all actually think this is a great idea as it affords everyone a little quiet, and the stoic Arthur gets some time with his granddaughter. And cleverly Claudine changes Grace into her pyjamas for the walk so by the time they return the toddler is asleep and for once bedtime isn’t a battle.

After a quiet night and an unusually quiet morning Mycroft watches with concern when Aunt Lillian and Uncle Arthur start packing their car. The moment the dog basket vanishes in the boot of their Land Rover he gets restless, because Grace is still asleep. She tends to do that from time to time. Mycroft had read that it isn’t unusual for toddlers to have days of sleep-ins until noon. Grace in particular seems to have taken to that concept. Days and nights of barely any sleep will suddenly be followed by a day of scant waking hours. They’ve given up trying to wake her in the morning as it turned out to have a disastrous effect on her mood for days. Why though does today have to be one of those days? He really can’t risk them leaving without giving Grace the chance to say goodbye.  


He quietly sneaks into Grace’s room and is already dreading the moment he has to wake her. Why does he have to be the one to take on the storm of sulk that is most likely to happen? Isn’t that the task of one of the adults? But no, as always, he has to take care of everything himself. He softly shakes Grace's shoulder.  


“Grace. Wake up! It’s almost noon already.”

As expected, Grace only buries her face in her little cushion and ignores him.  


“Come on, you sleepy head, it’s late.”

“Go ‘way, Myk.” mumbles Gracie sleepily and barely audible.  


“Grace, if you want to say goodbye to Auntie and Uncle… uhm… Grand’Mere and Granddad, you really have to get up now.”

Grace is awake in an instant and suddenly sits up and stares at Mycroft with wide eyes. Then she scrambles, as fast as is possible being all tangled up in her sheets, out of her bed and hops down the stairs; all the while mumbling “nonononono”. Mycroft follows her closely, afraid that she might slip in her hurry. She freezes in the hallway where it is obvious that the dog basket is missing. When she slowly turns to him, Mycroft’s heart sinks. That’s what he has been afraid of.  


“They gone?” Grace whispers, her eyes wide in horror. 

That same moment they hear a bark outside on the front of the house and Grace rushes over to the front door, reaches the handle by standing on her tiptoes and pulls it open. Barefoot and in her nighty, she runs over the gravel covered drive and Mycroft wonders if that doesn’t hurt her little chubby feet; but apparently Grace doesn’t care. Ignoring everyone, she walks towards the dog who sits next to the car, panting against the warm summer air. She stands in front of him and stems her tiny fists in her sides in an attempt to look threateningly down at him.  


“Redbeard, you not allowed to leave.” she says. The panting dog gullibly looks up to her.  


Behind her back Arthur starts laughing and Grace turns to look at him, her brows drawn together.   


“I’m afraid that’s not your choice to make, little Miss. At least you’re up in time to say goodbye.” 

“Redbeard stay here.” she says, sternly.  


When Arthur only laughs again and asks, “What did you call him?”, she turns to Mycroft for help.  


“Myk, Redbeard stay here. With Gil-Bear.” she pleads. The look she gives him is heart-breaking. As if she believes he could do anything about it. He can’t though. And Uncle Arthur is right, she keeps calling the dog that name. He’s curious, too.  


“Really Grace, it’s obvious that the dog can’t stay. And his name is Beau. What are you calling him all the time? Red Beau?”

“No, Myk. Redbeard. And he stay!” Grace gets fidgety which is a clear sign of distress. One of her tells actually, but then Mycroft has already expected that it wouldn’t be easy for her.  


“Red what?” he tries to distract her. And to be honest, he also finds it funny, Grace thinking up names. Interesting.  


“Red. Beard.” she almost yells, clearly annoyed now. 

“Oh,” he laughs, “beard…”

“Yes, beard. You know beard, Myk? The hair in face!” Grace pats herself with both hands on her cheeks. She seems to doubt his state of mind. He can’t stop chuckling though. “And  _ he stay _ !” she adds, for good measure she stomps with one of her feet.  


“Oh Grace,” Mycroft snickers, he can’t help it. Little children are too funny sometimes. “It’s not  _ a beard. _ It’s fur! With dogs it’s called ‘fur’. As it is for a lot of animals. But never ‘beard’.” The thought made him laugh again. “So, if anything you have to call him Red-fur, you silly.”

The words hadn’t fully left his mouth, yet he sees something shift in Grace’s expression. Somehow her eyes seem different and she straightens. She also doesn’t look like she is about to cry anymore. Curious. She doesn’t respond or contradict. She doesn’t say anything actually, only turns and hugs the surprised dog tightly. 

As fast as she appeared, she rushes back into the house now and Mycroft hears her practically run up the stairs. Mummy calls after her, but to no avail. Sighing, she gives her excuses to an impatient Lillian and runs after Grace, calling her. Mycroft, feeling more and more uneasy with the whole situation, has his own suspicions when his mother appears again without Grace.  


“I’m really sorry, but I can’t find her. You know how she can be,” she laughs nervously, and Mycroft feels sorry for her. He just in time spots his aunt rolling her eyes and for once he wishes people would show a bit more sympathy. 

“I’m sure it’s okay though. You’ll be back for Christmas anyway; it’s not that long, right? Grace is not a very sentimental child anyway…” 

Mycroft would have loved to raise an eyebrow at his mother but even he finds that inappropriate. One has to respect one's parents after all. At least as long as one is dependent on them. 

They say their goodbyes and after Lillian and Arthur have left, Mycroft discreetly makes his way up the stairs. He hopes that Claudine hasn’t started to make up the rooms yet. He’s lucky that Claudine is apparently busy in the kitchen, so he sneaks into the guest room and closes the door behind him. As expected, he hears noises from inside the cupboard. He cracks the door open to peek inside and there he finds Grace in a state terribly similar to the situation after the wetting-accident. Although somehow this is different. She sits all hunched together, rocking back and forth. She has wrapped herself in one of her covers and Mycroft can spot the ever-present Gil-Bear. What is different is that one of her hands is tightly clenched in her hair and with the other she has formed a fist and keeps knocking it against her cheekbone. When he pulls the door open and tries to stop her, she flinches away. He tries to soothe her as he has done the last time, but she starts shaking her head and humming one note loudly as if to drown him out. He’s out of his depth. All he knows is that this is definitely not good. However, he also doubts that his parents will be able to help it.  


“Grace, calm down. What is it?” he tries to get through to her. She’s still shaking her head, so he goes on. “Can I do something for you? Get in there with you again?” The shaking of her head intensifies and finally she speaks, although it’s not what Mycroft has hoped for.  


“Do we like him, Gil-Bear?” she says in a small voice without stopping to shake her head. A tad lower, as much as is possible for a toddler, she says, “No, we not like him. He go away.” and in her own voice, “Yes, you right. We not want him. You my friend, Gil-Bear.” 

And that’s it. Mycroft doesn’t succeed in coaxing any more words from her and gets ignored completely. His stomach drops and he feels that something significant has happened. If only he would know what. 

He holds his position, sitting in front of the cupboard, for a long time, but when it becomes apparent that Grace does not intend to leave it as long as he’s there, he retreats into his room. After a while, Grace re-emerges from her shelter and he watches through his open door how she dumps the cover and plush toy in her bed and wordlessly makes her way downstairs. She’s quiet during the whole day. Which isn’t that alarming in itself. But she doesn’t fuss when Claudine dresses her, she doesn’t resist any orders, she even eats. She doesn’t play though; she only sits on the sofa picking at her yellow tights; she sits on the lawn plucking blades of grass; she sits at the table in the sun room and instead of drawing she sorts her crayons first according to colour then to their length and back again. At the end of the day she goes to bed, just so. And Mycroft is left troubled and worried.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're so happy that you're still here! Thank you so much for sticking with us and for following Grace on her journey.


	6. Mismatching Perceptions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the season moves into Autumn the Holmeses attend Demeter's funeral; Violet grapples with increasing concern over Grace's behaviour, and Hugh wonders exactly what he's supposed to do about all of it.

In the two weeks since Lillian and Arthur left, little Grace seems to have withdrawn even more; she hasn't been her usual self ever since. Although Hugh, as he slows the car down to a crawl as they hit a traffic jam, probably roadworks, has to concede to himself he’s not sure what passes as usual for Grace.

He doesn't see her a great deal, at least not regularly and most often for short periods of time, the odd bedtime, breakfast or family meal; his work requires irregular and often spontaneous work hours. However, in the times he sees her, she seems to be in a different mood on each occasion.

He doesn’t really understand her, but her mood swings don’t trouble him as they do Violet. Admittedly, his wife and Claudine are her main minders; and unexpectedly Mycroft has taken an interest in her; but Hugh doesn't see the drama in her behaviour that causes his wife so much sorrow. The child doesn’t seem to be malicious or harmful to herself or others. True, she's very withdrawn, doesn't speak much, and if so it's -- as far as he knows -- not exactly typical for her age. But then, she has lived through a lot of traumas only recently and is the offspring of two pretty intelligent families. He's not all that surprised about any of her ‘oddities’.

Take today. It’s finally Demeter’s funeral. It had taken a little longer than expected for the police to release her body, having deemed it suicide, and then for her parents to be free to attend. He can see, in part, why Lillian finds the family of her late son’s wife difficult. The couple could not leave their touring show for long enough before now. Performers dedicated to their art and audiences, keeping odd hours and travelling for months at a time. “The show must go on” apparently. Hugh realises with sudden clarity it’s little wonder that Grace struggled to have her needs met by Demeter if that had been the example set, and whilst Demeter had obviously thrived under such conditions the same hadn’t applied to her daughter. And somehow the eccentricities of the rest of the Vernet clan, Violet’s own assorted extended family, have completely passed his sister-in-law by as well. Lillian is a realist surrounded by a family of artists and dreamers. Even Violet’s way with numbers is something she has never understood, the way her little sister lights up given a knotty numerical problem. It’s something Hugh loves about Violet, and that Lillian finds an annoyance.

So of course Lillian isn’t going. She and Arthur will travel down to London once everything has settled and pay their respects that way, at a relaxed pace given Lillian’s illness, and away from crowds, given Demeter’s popularity as an actress. It had been one of the many things the sisters had discussed when they had visited, Lillian would have preferred no one from their side attend but Violet, rightly Hugh agrees, had told her sister that would be spiteful, and Lillian had countered that it would be an upheaval for Grace. But Violet had come back that it would be the least they could do all things considered especially as she and Demeter had been close.

As if to prove Lillian right about the stress, and Violet correct about how difficult Grace is anyway, leaving the house this morning had been, frankly, an absolute nightmare. Violet had wanted Grace to wear a particular outfit because it’s a funeral, for god’s sake. And the toddler had steadfastly refused and dressed herself in one of the few pieces of clothing she will still wear. She appears to have self selected only four outfits and will wear nothing else; it’s one thing driving Violet spare, it seems. This time she has dressed in her beloved bee dungarees and wellingtons. Not even Mycroft’s cajoling had persuaded Grace to get changed. He seems to have lost whatever ground he’d made with her during the summer, and now he’s back at school, even during the few nights of the week he boards Grace doesn't even seem bothered that he’s gone. In the end, the only way they had finally got her in the car after her hiding in various parts of the house from them had been for Hugh to pick her up, at which point she’d gone absolutely limp and closed her eyes.

Since then she’s just sat frowning on the cushions piled on the backseat behind Violet, so she could, if she wanted, see out of the window. Her eyes are still firmly clamped shut and her little fists balled up in her lap, Gil-bear, who Mycroft had remembered to pick up, discarded and ignored the seat next to her. Hugh had thought she might sleep on the journey but she’s just emanating a quiet sort of unnerving fury, her mouth set into a pout and a crinkle etched between her furrowed eyebrows.

Violet isn’t much better. The day was always going to be hard on her anyway but now every so often she looks over at Grace, sighs and shakes her head; she’s also gnawing on her lower lip, a habit from when she feels stressed. He has tried striking up conversation with her to see if he can lift her mood even a little, and all she said was, “Not now, I’m thinking.”

Mycroft too is in his own world as he seems to have brought along a textbook for the journey and has it open on his lap, engrossed. How the boy can read in the car is beyond him. It always made Hugh feel sick as a child.

He’s wondering if they’re doing the right thing at all, planning to adopt Grace. Maybe… but no. Hugh realises it wouldn’t have mattered where Grace had ended up, she’d have still been the same queer little whirlwind. There’s a connection with them, they’re already family… however tenuous and stretched it feels right now.

Five minutes later he hears a curious dull thumping from the seat where Grace is and he moves his head just enough to catch sight of her in the rear-view mirror. Her head resting on the window and her eyes lazily open now taking in the passing greenery. The thud is that she seems to be touching her head to the glass as if to a beat. It doesn’t bother him and she doesn’t look like she’s hurting herself, he can see that she’s actually relaxed a little.

Of course, it doesn’t last.

“Grace. Darling? Don’t do that, sweetheart? Please? You’ll hurt yourself.” Violet says after a few minutes more.

The thudding gets louder and slightly faster as Grace balks at being instructed.

“Grace!” Violet begins again, and the sound of Grace’s fingers tapping against the inside of the car door join in the cacophony.

“Vi. She isn’t hurting anyone… It’s fine.” Hugh says in a low tone as Violet takes a deep breath to speak to Grace again. His interruption stops her and momentarily she has the grace to look chastised, which morphs to affronted then furious in a blink.

“But she shouldn’t be doing _that_. What if she smashes the window?” She hisses back.

“She’s two years old, Vi. She will not break a window tapping her head against the bottom of it.”

Violet is now the one emanating quiet fury, but she says nothing more about it, and soon the tapping slows and stops just as Hugh gets through the traffic. Grace has slumped, eyes closed now. Sleeping.

“See. She’s dropped off. Give her a few minutes then lie her down and make her comfortable won’t you Myk? We’ve another hour’s journey, no use her lolling about back there.”  
  
For the next forty minutes the car is near silent, Mycroft gone back to reading after rearranging Grace into a barrier of cushions, and Violet half dozing herself in the passenger seat.

It’s just as they slow again at the start of the heavier London traffic a van cuts up a car somewhere in front and Hugh has to press slightly harder on the brake pedal than he’d like, as the harsh sound of horns erupts from outside. The impact on the car is slight but Violet comes to with a start, her eyes wide, settling once she remembers she’s in the car and they are obviously safe.

The reaction of Grace is not so calm, she is quite unharmed having been protected by her cushion nest but as she’d evidently dropped into deepish snooze, and is wailing like a banshee sat bolt upright and pale from the obvious shock of being jolted awake by movement and sound. She hasn’t proved keen on sudden loud noises anyway, never mind from a state of sleep.

Violet is already trying to talk over the din to placate Grace, but it’s obvious from the way the toddler’s gaze seems caught in some middle distance and her hands are violently engaged in their customary shaking of distress that this method is a lost cause. Hugh spots a gap where he can pull over in safety and heads straight for it.

Violet is out of her seat and slipping herself between the seats into the back with the children as soon the car stills; in response Grace backs herself up against the door, and Mycroft has to move himself right over to his side to make way for his mother. He doesn’t quite shift quickly enough, though.

“Ouch Mummy!” He cries out. “Your foot is on my ankle and you somehow pinched my arm too!”

“Oh sorry darling, there, I’ll just move this way.” Violet turns and is finally sitting between the two children in the middle of the back seat.

The exchange seems to distract Grace from her wailing and it softens quickly to shaky breaths and minor sobs, but she is still right against the door white as a sheet. Her eyes now, Hugh can see in the rearview: sharp, clear and narrowed, locked onto Violet.

“There, Gracie.” Violet says soothingly, obviously slightly stunned and disbelieving that her appearance alone had been enough to calm the toddler. “There was no need for all that fuss, was there? Uncle Hugh just had to break a little hard, that was all. Silly drivers in front. No harm done...”

“Yes! You… You…” Grace scrunches her face up, frustration showing at her inability to finish saying what she wants. “You hurted _my_ Myk!” The words tumble out in a barely audible rush but with enough force in her little voice that the anger is clear.

“Not on purpose, Grace. And Mummy said sorry,” Myk says, for once leaping to his mother’s defence. “It was an accident.”

“No such thing as assidents!” Grace says sharply. “And I don’t believe you are a-tuly sorry. You didn’t say it like you meh-nat it.” Grace intones seriously, the way the lilt of the phrases falls sounding accusatory; not quite her own words.

“Is that so, little one? Well, Auntie Violet just wanted to check you were okay, didn’t you, Vi?” Hugh says before anyone else can interject. They’re going to be late at this rate and he would rather get going again, just so they can all get out of the now frosty atmosphere of the car.

“No, I certainly didn’t mean to hurt Mykie, Grace.” Violet looks and sounds on the verge of tears. “I’ll come back through to the front, I think. More carefully this time.”

Grace isn’t listening and is pulling all the now scattered cushions back towards her to create a sort of fort-like barrier between herself and the rest of the car. And then finding Gil-bear between herself and Violet squeezes him close and shuts her eyes tight again, resuming her head tapping movements, this time against the back cushion of the seat.

Violet lets out an obviously involuntary shaky sigh and picks her way back through into the front passenger side slowly to make sure she is nowhere near either Mycroft or Grace this time and sinks into her seat when she gets there almost as if she wants to disappear into the leather and be invisible.

Hugh reaches a hand over to her and gives her knee a squeeze, hopefully communicating support, but Violet pushes it away. So much for that.

“Right folks. Let’s get going, shall we?” Hugh says more for his own benefit than the rest of the car's silent occupants. So much stress already, and the hardest part of the day hasn’t even happened yet. Hugh promises himself a stiff drink when they finally get home, and one of those cigars his work colleagues got him for his birthday.

* * *

The rest of the month passes in a haste of long work days which often end up with Hugh staying over at a friend’s close to the office rather than heading home; and on the rare occasion he makes it back it’s to a dark house and the household, including Violet already in bed. Then that extends into October so when Hugh rolls in at gone midnight as they draw closer to November, his usual host away with their own work, he is surprised to find Violet still up sitting at the kitchen table. There’s a pile of library books next to her, one propped open on the cookbook stand, and she’s scribbling away in a notebook. A large glass of wine, white, nearly empty next to her, and most of the bottle she’s evidently been drinking from gone. She looks… thin, her cheeks hollower than he remembers. She’s never tended toward either being over or underweight. Just perfectly average and ‘right’ and it’s certainly something they never discuss; she never declares herself to be on a diet or the like, but it is obvious something has given in Violet’s care of herself.

“Hello darling, I wasn’t expecting you to be up.”

Violet jumps as if caught doing something she shouldn’t.

“Oh, Hugh! It’s you. I thought it might be Grace again, she hasn’t been sleeping… I didn’t think you’d be back tonight. Oh, is it really that late? Goodness! I got caught up in this.” She says nodding towards the work spread in front of her, anxiety lined in her face. “I’ve been thinking about Grace, her behaviour… everything. The books are all from the library. I can’t just do nothing, so I’m researching…”

“Ah, I see. A project. Then you’ll be wanting a cup of tea?”

“Oh god… yes please.”

Hugh busies himself making a pot whilst Violet gets up and moves her makeshift workstation around so he can have a seat and see what she has been doing, and clears away the wine and wineglass so there's room for their hot drinks. Hugh says nothing about it; now isn’t the time.

Soon they are both at the table, tea poured, just waiting for the right moment to speak. Hugh decides he’d best go first.

“So I take it things have been a little tricky here?”

“Tricky, Hugh?! Just ‘a little tricky…’ Oh no things have been fine. Brilliant, in fact. Grace is a perfect darling. A genteel little angel. Couldn’t want for more from our charming fosterling. That’s why I have half the childhood development books ever published on my kitchen table, including some I asked for specifically from Oxford, and that’s the University, not the Central library! And why Myk has decided he’d rather board weekends until Christmas. Which of course you’d know if you were ever here!”

“No, you’re right, I’m not here. I’m not here because I’m _working_ every hour God sends. And whilst I didn’t know Myk had opted for extra boarding, I’m the damned reason we can afford it.”

“Oh, and of course, I’m _not_ working. As if the house, children, bills, cooking just look after themselves… Staying at home is work! And before you even say it because you will, I know we have Claudine here, but she doesn’t work every day because she is also studying. And that was our deal. I could have made plenty enough money staying in academia, but _we_ wanted a family. And now we have one, one that feels like it’s falling apart at the seams and I don’t know what to do… I don’t know… I hate not knowing.”

Violet obviously overwrought bursts into tears.

“I’m sorry. I am so tired, Hugh. And I don’t know what to do. Even with all this,” she says, indicating the books and notes, “I’m out of my depth.”

“Well, you’ve done this before, love. Had a toddler. What was Myk like?”

“It’s not even a fair comparison. I could talk to Myk. Reason with him. And I know my son. He’s my baby, I carried him for nine months, he’s parts of you and parts of me. Even though sometimes I wonder exactly which parts, then cringe because I know exactly which parts. It’s different when I look at Grace, I see Bill, so much of Bill, and Deme. And both things hurt, because they’re not with us anymore. And I’ve known her since she was born, but… She’s this wilful little stranger who looks at me with such contempt. I love her, Hugh, and I think she hates me.”

“Has she said that?”

“Oh god no. She doesn’t speak to me, Hugh. She doesn’t speak to anyone. Not a single person, not since on the way to Deme’s funeral. It’s what Mykie can’t stand. She won’t listen to him anymore, but she pesters him absolutely rotten when he’s busy with schoolwork and she drew in one of his schoolbooks. That was the last straw. Hazel said that she obviously does still speak at least as Grace had a brief chat with Gil-bear whilst I paid the milkman, but it was probably French so Hazel had no idea what it was Grace said. But she was still worried.”

Hugh is slightly confused. He does not know who Hazel is, but Vi talks as if she expects him to know. Maybe she’s from the WI. Some of those ladies have opinions about everything. If he’s careful, he’s sure he can figure it out.

“Well, it can’t be all that bad if you had a friend round, surely, although why is she worried?”

“A friend round? When did I say I had a friend round? I can’t have anyone round Hugh. Can you imagine us trying to have a conversation with a toddler having some sort of catatonic moment in front of the hearth?!”

“But you said Hazel was here.”

“Hazel is the Health Visitor, Hugh. Sandra called her for me.”

“Right, and who’s Sandra?” He’s deep enough in so he may as well keep on digging.

“What do you mean who’s Sandra? She’s the Social Worker who is covering Claire’s caseload whilst she’s on maternity leave. You do remember Claire don’t you, and that she brought someone with her when she came to see Grace last? That was Sandra.” Hugh nods in what he hopes is a way which shows he now remembers, but he’s honestly so tired from work that he’s not sure he’ll recall any of this in the morning. “Well, I talked to Sandra, and she asked if I might want to see someone else about Grace, get some help, so she called Hazel.”

“And what did this Hazel think?”

“Well, like I said, she came to see us just over two weeks ago, left me with a stack of questionnaires, made some notes on Gracie, then came back last week to collect the questionnaires. That’s when Grace chattered in French… Anyway, she’s made a referral to the county Paediatric Psychiatry team. We have an appointment Monday.”

“It’s Friday now, Vi. I’m supposed to be in Stratford on Monday. Surely this isn’t that urgent?”

“Cancel Stratford! This is important! I need you there.”

“I still don’t understand why we are doing this, Vi? The psychiatry team? That’s... The whole thing is excessive. She’s practically a baby. Are you sure it’s not just… well, that you’re struggling a bit. Given..”

“Given what? My ability to be a mother hasn’t just evaporated because I’m menopausal. Nor because I’m grieving the loss of members of _our_ family. Grace is, she’s always been a bit like this, but it’s so much worse now... She needs help and you don’t see it because I’m not sure you care.”

“I do care about Grace, Vi. I just think...”

“Right now I don’t care what you think, and I didn’t say it was Grace, you didn’t care about, Hugh. I’m going to bed. The spare room is free.”

* * *

Over the weekend, the atmosphere between Hugh and Violet remains strained but polite. He stays in the spare room to give her some obviously needed space; lets her know he has successfully moved his trip to Stratford until later in the week. Also, instead of going into the office, he uses the study. He expects Violet to be happy about this, that he is at least in the house, maybe able to help, but somehow it just causes her to seem even more anxious and she solves this by putting a reluctant Grace into her buggy and getting out of the house regardless of the weather. He’s not sure where she goes with her, but if this is how things are, it’s little wonder Grace isn’t settling.

Hugh puts aside some time Saturday evening whilst Vi is bathing Grace to read over her notes, which he doesn’t really understand. She seems to have latched onto the idea that maybe Grace had a poor attachment with Demeter, which according to some paperwork from the social workers seems to actually be true, so he can’t necessarily disagree with the idea but it just feels to him like Violet isn’t putting her effort in the right places either. There’s an entire section of notes on what Violet is worried about in Grace’s drawing. As far as Hugh can see the child is prodigious in her ability to capture the shape and essence of many people and objects, he really can’t see why this is a bother, but according to Violet’s observations the subject of the pictures is disturbingly dark for a two-year-old. He has to admit there are numerous people with what Violet supposes are swords, but surely she’s reading too much into it and they’re spoons or just fishing rods or maybe even sticks. Grace had commandeered a large twig from a pile the gardener had pruned over the summer, and had dragged it around for a few hours whilst Lillian had been there, until it had snapped. It’s not as if Grace gives anyone an answer now and she isn’t violent towards anyone in the house from what he sees, so why it’s such a concern is beyond him.

When Monday rolls around Grace is surprisingly compliant in dressing to go out, assenting to wear what Violet has picked out for her. Maybe Hugh’s presence at home has done some good. Restored a little order to the household. They reach the hospital in good time, although it makes Hugh uneasy to be there at all; Violet has dusted off her briefcase, filled it with her notes and looks like she’s going for a meeting with her PhD supervisor rather than a foster mother worried about her charge. Grace, of course, senses everyone’s discomfort and is reluctant to leave the car. Clinging tightly to Gil-bear, pushed into her seat and stiff. Hugh has to stop himself from insisting they put an end to this nonsense and go home; he has to do this to placate Violet, even if the outcome is, as he expects, that she just needs to knuckle down and get on with it. Eventually, Grace lets him lift her out of the car and carry her in.

Overall, the initial appointment seems to go well, Hugh thinks. The psychiatrist, or maybe psychologist in this case, is a young lady who seems to put Grace through a series of play based tests. Grace doesn’t speak but seems to follow all the instructions well. Then she asks to have a chat with Violet whilst Hugh is told to take Grace for a walk in the beautiful grounds. The day is clear and cold; the leaves fallen from the trees are crispy and, surprisingly, Grace enjoys charging around in them.

“What do you think so far? What you expected?” Hugh asks as Violet joins him on a bench where Grace is nearby lying on her back in a pile of leaves, her little green padded waistcoat covered in broken bits, kicking her feet at the ground. She had seemed happy, so Hugh had left her to it.

“No. Much worse, because I don’t know who that child is.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, that she is never like that for me at home. Why is she doing all of this for a stranger and she won’t for me?”

Hugh opens his mouth to respond and then thinks better of it. She’s obviously riled up already and a row now would only upset everyone, and make them look bad, and given what Violet just said they’re probably going to be told they wasted everyone’s time as it is.  
  
Eventually, Grace lets Violet ply her with a snack and a carton of juice before they go back for another short round of observations and some more questionnaires. They agree that Hugh will take Grace in for this assessment and Violet will fill in the forms, no use Hugh doing them after all. Again Grace seems to do everything right from what Hugh sees. She still doesn’t speak and is reluctant to interact with yet another new adult, an even younger male nurse this time, but he praises her and she even smiles at him when he tells her she’s been a good girl.

When the couple meet again in the hallway, they are taken to an office with the first practitioner again and given another appointment for the same day and time next week to avoid clashing with Hugh’s work. Grace puts her arms up to Hugh when they leave for another lift up and even though she doesn’t snuggle in, preferring to tip her head back and lean, her little hand finds the collar of his shirt and he can feel her chubby little fingers against his neck. When he sets her down into the back of the car, she yawns and is asleep before they even leave the car park. Violet stays quiet again and given the snoring toddler, Hugh is reluctant to engage her in conversation. So now they only need to wait.  
  


* * *

The week rushes by for Hugh, but even then they are all too soon back in the waiting room. Violet, rather than appearing happy she may get an answer today, looks ill.

“Hey, are you okay?”

“Nervous. This is worse than my viva. This entire week has been… challenging. I’m sure Grace could sense I was stretched. Everything took twice as long as usual, and Thursday and Friday I think I had my breakfast gone noon both days. I’m surprised Claudine agreed to have her on her own today. That girl has the patience of a saint. I’d have resigned already.”

“Holmes?” Calls the receptionist from the desk.

“Yes?” Violet answers first.

“Dr Forbes is ready for you. He’s in Room Five. Just down that corridor on the left.”

When they reach the door, Hugh indicates Violet should knock.

“After you, dear. You’re in charge here after all…”

“Come in,“ issues from behind the door and they step into the office of a thin stern faced gentleman, maybe approaching his fifties. He’s not any of the people who worked with Grace on their last visit. He rises from his chair and reaches to shake Hugh’s hand. Then indicates the chairs opposite.

“Mr Holmes. Mrs Holmes. Do sit down.”

Hugh can feel Violet roll her eyes beside him at the Doctor, not offering her the same greeting as himself, even though he isn’t looking at her.

“So, here we are. Now, before we start, I’d like to say that Grace is perhaps a little young to have been assessed. She’s not quite three. So some of the usual things we would have done are not applicable. However, I know there were already concerns logged going back just over a year by her mother, and then later her social worker and health visitor in London. I’ve taken a look at your answers to assessments, the reports from your social worker and the current health visitor, and our own observations. And I have to say there is a lot to be positive about.” Hugh wonders how the man can deliver that line so convincingly, considering he still looks like he might have been given the news his beloved pet goldfish has died. “Grace seems to have made good progress since joining you in August, according to the Social Worker. I think you’re both doing a good job in what are obviously challenging circumstances.”

Hugh hears Violet stifle a snort, obviously balking at Hugh getting any of the praise she feels is due to her.

“Well, that’s mostly down to Violet,” Hugh replies “and our au pair, Claudine. She has Grace at the moment so we could come out to this.”

“Ah, yes. Teamwork. Good job. Gives you a little time to get on with things, I suspect Mrs Holmes. Housework doesn’t do itself as my own wife so often tells me. Right, so all of that said let’s get down to the nitty gritty. From your side you were concerned about Grace’s behaviour, that she’s very reluctant to interact and generally a noncompliant child, with issues such as dressing and eating areas of struggle. Also, she doesn’t talk much if at all for long periods, although everyone reported she does speak and also in French apparently, a clever girl. And there was the subject of her artwork? Perhaps a little too ghoulish for your tastes. Well, I can tell you quite plainly that they called the terrible twos for a reason! No parent ever comes out of them unscathed and foster parents, great-aunts and uncles such as yourselves are unlikely to be the exception.”

“I think just aunt will do. I’m not 40 yet and Hugh only turned 40 last year! We’re not too old to have had another child...”

“Oh of course, Mrs Holmes. Nothing of the sort! Your social worker reports that your own son was a very precocious and well-mannered infant, and continues as such until this day. In fact, he’s on track to move up to Winchester at 11, a whole two years early? Goodness, what a lucky lad. I assume he’s got a good future mapped out ahead of him. Camford like yourselves? So he’s probably found the introduction of a boisterous toddler to his settled life quite an upheaval.”

“Well, yes, but Mykie has been working really hard to cultivate a nice relationship with Grace. In fact, they were becoming rather close over the summer.” Violet says stiffly. Hugh can see she’s becoming frustrated with the doctor’s barrage of comments directed at her.

“Ah, I see… Yes, well, she might just be upset he’s back at school. He boards during the week and is currently doing weekends too? I know they had a little run in over a textbook, was it? But maybe adjust that back, toddlers will be toddlers. You have to remember that she has had quite a chaotic and busy start to life. She was used to lots of people visiting when she was living with her mother and whilst that wasn’t an ideal environment either, she’s possibly a bit bored joining your respectable little family. And at this stage we can’t rule out any ill effects from her mother’s drinking and drug use.”

“Demeter wasn’t doing drugs when she was pregnant with Grace. My nephew was still alive then! And we were seeing each other often. I would have noticed. Bill would have noticed.”

“Ah, well, people often keep these things hidden and they don’t just start from nowhere. It’ll certainly be a consideration if you continue to have difficulties in handling Grace. But as I said, she’s probably just bored. Our tests and your testimonies show that she’s a bright little thing, though maybe not as intelligent as your Mycroft, that could certainly mean you find it harder to connect with her. You’re perhaps disappointed you might not be fostering a child of the same calibre as your own.”

Violet’s cheeks have turned scarlet, and Hugh can see she’s biting her lip against saying anything else. In fairness, that comment was perhaps a little close to the bone.

“It could also be said her colourful behaviour is just the result of that still very active mind. She likes to run around the house and garden. Well, you wouldn’t believe the amount of mothers I have in here with girls who are quiet, not talkative at all, very wary of conversation but busy like little Grace, and they’re often incredibly imaginative to boot, once they get a handle on speaking to people they often don’t stop. And as your own child is a son, well, even a studious, thoughtful one like Mycroft, what a splendid name, unique… Let me put it this way you said you were worried about Grace’s ability to form attachments but that she was much closer to her father than her mother. That’s often the way with girls you see, mothers see them as competition and can struggle. Maybe it was the same for you. So yes, your attachment to her and hers to you may have suffered as a result of a faulty relationship with her mother but maybe you’re just so used to the upbringing of your son that you’ve not adjusted your methods yet, especially as she’s not your own child, so your bond with her isn’t quite the same either. Maybe that’s something for you to do some work on Mrs Holmes.”

“I see so what exactly do I need to work on, Doctor?” If Dr Forbes has registered the obvious venom in Violet’s tone he’s either ignored it or is oblivious.

“Oh, there are some suggestions about things you should be doing differently, Mrs Holmes. I’ve passed them onto your social worker and also discussed that we feel it best to recommend some family therapy as well for now, for all of you, just to help you settle in. That’ll come through them rather than us, and if there’s any more referrals to be made, I’m sure they’ll be able to deal with those in good time.”

“But… her pictures, they’re so strange! Disturbing even!”

“Yes, an active imagination.” Dr Forbes says as if he both agrees with Violet and is also restating his point that she’s worrying too much. “Maybe steer her towards a more suitable subject. Natural objects. Still life drawing, whatever is popular on children's television these days, but remember to limit that. The television. Wouldn’t want her needing glasses too. Being an orphan is quite enough of an obstacle. I won’t keep you any longer, but I do hope not to see you again.”

“Thank you for your time, Dr Forbes.” Hugh says before Violet can say anything else.

Violet is seething, Hugh can tell. He just hopes they can get to the car before she starts whatever tirade he’s about to experience. She stalks ahead and waits, passenger-side expression expectant of him to open the car up already and let her in.

As soon as he unlocks it, she yanks the door open and sits heavily into her seat before slamming it shut again so hard the car shakes and pigeons startle from a nearby pine tree. Hugh sighs and lets himself into the car.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t what you were hoping for dear, but maybe now…”

“No! Don’t you dare. I have never been so humiliated in all my life and you just sat there and let him say all of those things? About me…”

“He was mostly talking about Grace, my love.”

“Don’t you, ‘my love’ me! Were you even listening? It’s like you weren’t in the same room! All that rubbish about girls being different, and how I’m disappointed Grace isn’t Mykie… and Deme being some sort of… of…” Violet chokes back an angry sob. “I will not cry. Not over this. He was a vile patronising man and I’m glad we don’t have to see him again. I want what’s best for Grace. I know she’s unhappy. I want to help her! That’s all...”

“I think in some ways, he might be right.”

“Really?! Oh please, Hugh. Go on. Show me those diplomatic skills that are so highly prized you’re barely home. Persuade me or do whatever it is you do that’s so bloody important! Or am I not as important as your high flying political friends? I don’t get the same calibre of discussion. I’m just a woman. Stay at home and shut up and look after your child. Other people’s children even… People who can’t even do what you want them to and stay alive long enough that they don’t fuck up everything for everyone else.”

“Are you done?”

“No, I don’t think so. I am so angry, Hugh. About all of it. It is like a pot on a simmer. And I’m trying hard, so bloody hard not to let it all spill over and yet I must be doing an awful job, you and that man think so, so explain exactly how. Apparently I might let her watch too much television. Never mind the child bloody hates it and covers her ears every time it’s on! So yes, in case I’m too dense to understand please continue the patronisation… I’m so desperate to be told exactly what to do!”  
  
“Darling. I don’t... You’re not... Listen. You are a genius. When it comes to figures and sums, you have all of us beat but, you want to be the best at everything still! We were having Gracie because Deme couldn’t cope, and we all thought it was just her grief over Bill, but it was obviously so much deeper than that otherwise she’d still be here. And I would never ordinarily tell you what to do about anything. Chance would be a fine thing! Usually, you’d laugh in my face. But you started this. You’re begging everyone for help and then when they give you answers they’re not what you wanted. So hear me out. What if it is just that she’s bored, Vi? Maybe this time you actually need to make the effort to socialise a child. Take Grace to playgroup at the church hall. Make friends with the other mums, even though you prefer the WI ladies. You’re just the same as our son, seeking the next experience ahead of your time. And I know that’s why it didn’t work that way with Mykie… He really was far too perfect a baby, and you always felt outside the group, both of you, so you stopped going. And neither of you suffered for it, so it must have been right. But you might just have to try this time, do things differently. You can’t just keep going and sitting at the station with her watching the trains. See, I’m not that stupid, even daft old me figured it out eventually.”

“What gave us away in the end?”

“The timing. When you got back to give Grace supper on Saturday was about right for you to have stopped on the bridge to watch the 3.48 to Oxford pull in, then walked back past the ducks. Also, Grace had a fist full of breadcrumbs and was making a quiet train noise. Honestly, I was stumped for ages… So don’t think I’ll be winning deductions at Christmas.”

“Well she, I think she enjoys looking at the timetables, and we count the carriages, well I do she just sort of stares at them. And it’s quiet during the day in the waiting room, I can read… And there’s no one there to judge either of us. The tearoom is okay if it's a weekday too. She likes gingerbread men, did you know? Snapping their heads off then she eats them from the legs up. First time she did it I thought she was saving it for last so I tried persuading her to eat it but she just screamed and then I was going to eat it but she got even more upset so I wrapped it in a napkin and took it home…. They’re big ones there too, I’ve never seen her eat that quantity of anything else… Anyway she screamed when I tried to throw the head away the next day too so I let her have it, and she has a growing collection of severed gingerbread heads in a tupperware box. I should have said that in there too. Maybe that would have gotten his attention! Don’t you think that’s odd, Hugh?”

“Maybe a little, but I still eat jelly babies' legs first so they can’t run away, Vi. And my favourite toy was a wooden spoon I stole from the kitchen that Nanny let me draw a face on, she made clothes for it too even though I had plenty of lovely toys in the nursery, I think it’s still up in the attic somewhere at the Estate. Seems she’s just a little human being Vi, and so are you.”

“It’s alright for you though. She likes you… I’m just horrid Auntie Vi.”

“Love? Look at me.” Hugh says gently; Violet does turn but he can see the weight of everything on his wife and still isn’t sure how to fix it. “I’m a novelty. Like you say, I’m never around. It’s like going on holiday. ‘Nice place to visit wouldn’t want to live there!’ You do pretty much everything for her these days. And you’re both Verners. Is it such a surprise you bump heads with her? You’re the same with your sister…”

“You really think this is the right time to bring up Lillian? But I suppose… I just, something about this isn’t right, but I must make my peace with it for now and see if therapy changes anything. Sandra and Hazel will be in contact if it’s gone back to social services. Come on. Let’s go home and rescue Claudine from our… What was it that doctor called her?”

“Boisterous toddler. Well, she is sometimes when she feels like it. We’ll get through, Vi… I’m sure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for sticking with us at this tricky time!
> 
> I (Shylockgnomes) finally got back into writing this chapter this year and then all of a sudden it was pretty much done! Hurrah!
> 
> With regards to use of Camford rather than Oxbridge for the usual term of how to refer to the Universities of Oxford and Cambridge this comes from the show so I thought we'd do a little reference to this parallel universe!
> 
> Please bear in mind neither of us are child psyches though we both work in related fields, so if anything is wrong in the assesment portion blame the internet!
> 
> It was really fun writing from Hugh's perspective this time although sometimes I wanted to bomp him on the head with something because he's very much a product of his time!


End file.
